THE 
BOOK 


EVELYN 


..BRALDINE 
CONNER 


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THE  BOOK  OF  EVELYN 


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The  star  of  the  occasion  was  cahii  and  confident 


THE 
BOOK  OF  EVELYN 


By 

GERALDINE  BONNER 

Author  of 

TOMORROW'S  TANGLB.  THB  PIONBSR 
RICH  MEN'S  CHILDREN.  ETC. 


»      •    <*'    •    •     »     »  .      .    '  ^ 

«    «  •  V  *    •  •  *  •  • 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

ARTHUR  WILLIAM  BROWN 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRLLL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1913 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH   &   CO. 

DOOKBINOERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.   Y. 


THE  BOOK  OF  EVELYN 


THE  BOOK  OF  EVELYN 


I  HAVE  moved.  I  am  in. 
The  household  gods  that  have  lain  four  years 
in  storage  are  grouped  round  me,  showing  familiar 
faces.  It's  nice  of  them  not  to  have  changed  more, 
grown  up  as  children  do  or  got  older  like  one's 
friends.  They  don't  harmonize  with  the  furniture — 
this  is  an  appartement  meuhle — ^but  I  can  melt  them 
in  with  cushions  and  hangings. 

It's  going  to  be  very  snug  and  cozy  when  I  get  set- 
tled. This  room — the  parlor — is  a  good  shape,  an 
oblong  ending  in  a  bulge  of  bay  window.  Plenty  of 
sun  in  the  morning — I  can  have  plants.  Outside  the 
window  is  a  small  tin  roof  with  a  list  to  starboard 
where  rain-water  lodges  and  sparrows  come  to  take 
fussy  excited  baths.  Across  the  street  stands  a  row 
of  brownstone  fronts,  blank-visaged  houses  with  a 
white  curtain  in  every  window.   The  faces  of  such 

I 


MiS199 


2  THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN 

Koiises  arfe  like  *tll6  faces  of  the  people  wlio  live  In 
them/.'1'iiey  idl, you.  nothing  about  what's  going  on 
inside.  It's  a  peculiarity  of  New  York — after  living 
in  a  house  with  an  expressionless  front  wall  you  get 
an  expressionless  front  wall  yourself. 

From  the  windows  of  the  back  room  I  look  out 
on  the  flank  of  the  big  apartment-house  that  stands 
on  the  corner,  and  little  slips  of  yard,  side  by  side, 
with  fences  between.  Among  them  ours  has  a  lost 
or  strayed  appearance.  Never  did  an  unaspiring, 
city-bred  yard  look  more  homesick  and  out  of  place. 
It  has  a  sun-dial  in  the  middle,  circled  by  a  flagged 
path,  and  in  its  corners,  sheltered  by  a  few  discour- 
aged shrubs,  several  weather-worn  stone  ornaments. 
It  suggests  a  cemetery  of  small  things  that  had  to 
have  correspondingly  small  tombstones.  I  hear  from 
Mrs.  Bushey,  the  landlady,  that  a  sculptress  once 
lived  on  the  lower  floor  and  spent  three  hundred 
dollars  lifting  it  out  of  the  sphere  in  which  it  was 
born. 

I  am  going  to  like  it  Here.  I  am  going  to  make 
myself  like  it,  get  out  of  the  negative  habit  into  the 
positive.  That's  why  I  came  back  from  Europe,  that 
a  sudden  longing  for  home,  for  Broadway,  and  the 
lights  along  the  Battery,  and  dear  little  Diana  poised 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  3 

against  the  sky.  Four  years  of  pension  tables  and 
third-class  railway  carriages  do  not  develop  the  pos- 
itive habit.  I  was  becoming  negative  to  the  point  of 
annihilation.  I  wanted  to  be  braced  by  the  savage 
energies  of  my  native  city.  And  also  I  did  want 
some  other  society  than  that  of  lAmerican  spinsters 
and  widows.  The  Europeans  must  wonder  how  the 
land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  keeps  up 
its  birth-rate —  But  I  digress. 

When  you  have  an  income  of  one  hundred  and 
sixty-five  dollars  a  month  and  no  way  of  adding  to 
it,  are  thirty-three  and  a  widow  of  creditable  ante- 
cedents, the  difficulties  of  living  in  New  York  are  al- 
most insurmountable.  If  you  were  a  pauper  or  a 
millionaire  it  would  be  an  easy  matter.  They  rep- 
resent the  upper  and  the  nether  millstones  between 
which  people  like  me  are  crushed. 

And  then  your  friends  insist  on  being  considered. 
I  had  a  dream  of  six  rooms  on  the  upper  West  Side. 
*'But  the  upper  West  Side,  my  dear !  You  might  as 
well  be  in  Chicago.'*  Then  I  had  revolutionary  long- 
ings for  a  tiny  old  house  with  no  heat  and  a  sloping 
roof  in  Greenwich  Village —  "I  could  never  go  to 
see  you  there.  They  would  stone  the  motor,"  ended 
that.    There  is  just  one  slice  in  the  center  of  the  city 


4  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

in  which  a  poor  but  honest  widow  can  live  to  the  sat- 
isfaction of  everybody  but  herself.  So  here  I  am  in 
the  decorous  Seventies,  between  Park  Avenue  and 
Lexington,  in  an  eighteen-foot  dwelling  with  floors 
for  light  housekeeping. 

To  enter  you  go  down  three  steps  to  a  little  front 
door  that  tries  to  keep  up  to  the  neighborhood  by 
hiding  its  decrepitude  behind  an  iron  grill.  That 
lets  you  into  the  smallest  vestibule  in  the  world, 
where  four  bells  are  ranged  along  the  door-post  and 
four  letter-boxes  cling  to  the  wall.  Out  of  this  open 
two  more  doors,  one  that  gives  egress  to  a  narrow 
flight  of  stairs  without  a  hand-rail,  and  the  other  to 
the  ground-floor  apartment,  inhabited,  so  Mrs. 
Bushey  tells  me,  by  a  trained  nurse  and  her  aunt. 
There  was  a  tailor  there  once,  but  Mrs.  Bushey  got 
him  out —  "Cockroaches,  water  bugs,  and  then  the 
sign !  It  lowered  the  tone  of  the  house.  A  person  like 
you,"  Mrs.  Bushey  eyed  me  approvingly,  "would 
never  have  stood  for  a  tradesman's  sign." 

I  murmured  an  assent.  I  always  do  when  cred- 
ited with  exclusive  tastes  I  ought  to  have  and 
haven't.  It  was  the  day  I  came  to  look  the  place 
over,  and  I  was  nervously  anxious  to  make  a  good 
impression  on  Mrs.  Bushey.     Then  we  mounted  a 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  5 

narrow  stair  that  rose  through  a  well  to  upper  sto- 
ries. As  it  approached  the  landing  it  took  a  spirited 
curve,  as  if  in  the  hope  of  finding  something  better 
above.  The  stairway  was  dark  and  a  faint  thin  scent 
of  many  things  (I  know  it  now  to  be  a  composite 
of  cooking,  gas  leakage  and  cigars)  remained  sus- 
pended in  the  airless  shaft. 

"On  this  floor,"  said  Mrs.  Bushey,  turning  on  the 
curve,  as  if  in  the  hope  of  finding  something  better 
up  behind  her,  ''the  gas  is  never  put  out." 

I  took  that  floor.  I  don*t  know  whether  the  gas 
decided  it,  or  Mrs.  Bushey*s  persuasive  manners,  or 
an  exhaustion  that  led  me  to  look  with  favor  upon 
anything  that  had  a  chair  to  sit  on  and  a  bed  to  sleep 
in.  Anyway,  I  took  it,  and  the  next  day  burst  in 
upon  Betty  Ferguson,  trying  to  carry  it  off  with  a 
debonair  nonchalance:  *'Well,  I've  got  an  apart- 
ment at  last.'* 

Betty  looked  serious  and  asked  questions :  Was  it 
clean?  Did  the  landlady  seem  a  proper  person? 
Had  I  seen  any  of  the  other  lodgers  ?  Then  dwelt  on 
the  brighter  side :  It's  not  quite  a  block  from  Park 
Avenue.  If  you  don't  like  it  you  can  find  some  ex- 
cuse to  break  your  lease.  There  is  a  servant  on  the 
premises  who  will  come  in,  clean  up  and  cook  you 


6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

one  good  meal  so  you  won't  starve.  Well,  it  doesn't 
sound  so  bad. 

And  now  I'm  In  I  think  it's  even  less  bad  than  it 
sounded.  The  front  room  is  going  to  make  the  im- 
pression. It  is  already  getting  an  atmosphere,  the 
individuality  of  a  lady  of  uncultivated  literary  tastes 
is  imposing  itself  upon  the  department-store  back- 
ground. The  center  table — mission  style — is  begin- 
ning to  have  an  air,  with  Bergson  in  yellow  paper 
covers  and  two  volumes  of  Strindberg.  No  more  of 
him  for  me  after  Miss  Juliet,  but  he  has  his  uses 
thrown  carelessly  on  a  table  with  other  gentlemen  of 
the  moment.  If  I  am  ever  written  up  in  the  papers  I 
feel  sure  the  reporters  will  say,  '*Mrs.  Drake's  parlor 
gave  every  evidence  of  being  the  abode  of  a  woman 
of  culture  and  refinement." 

The  back  room  (there  are  only  two)  is  more  inti- 
mate. I  am  going  to  eat  there  and  also  sleep.  Friends 
may  come  in,  however;  for  the  bed,  during  the  day, 
masquerades  as  a  divan.  A  little  group  of  my  ances- 
tors— miniatures  and  photographs  of  portraits — 
hangs  on  the  wall  and  chaperons  me.  Between  the 
two  rooms  stretches  a  narrow  connecting  neck  of 
bathroom  and  kitchenette. 

There  is  only  one  word  that  describes  the  kitcH- 


THE    BOOK   OE   EVELYN  7 

enette — it  is  cute.  When  I  look  at  it  with  a  gas  stove 
on  one  side  and  tiers  of  shelves  on  the  other,  **cute" 
instinctively  rises  to  my  lips,  and  I  feel  that  my 
country  has  enriched  the  language  with  that  untrans- 
latable adjective.  No  one  has  ever  been  able  to  give 
it  a  satisfactory  definition,  but  if  you  got  into  my 
kitchenette,  which  just  holds  one  fair-sized  person, 
and  found  yourself  able  to  cook  with  one  hand  and 
reach  the  dishes  off  the  shelves  with  the  other,  you 
would  get  its  full  meaning. 

Before  the  house  was  cut  into  floors  the  kitchen- 
ette must  have  been  a  cupboard.  I  wonder  if  a  lady's 
clothes  hung  in  it  or  the  best  china  was  stored  there. 
There  is  a  delightful  mystery  about  old  houses  and 
their  former  occupants.  Haven't  I  read  somewhere 
that  walls  absorb  impressions  from  the  lives  they 
have  looked  on  and  exhale  them  to  the  pleasure  or 
detriment  of  later  comers? 

Last  night,  as  I  was  reading  in  bed — a  habit  ac- 
quired at  the  age  of  twelve  and  adhered  to  ever  since 
— I  remembered  this  and  wondered  what  the  walls 
would  exhale  on  me.  The  paper  has  a  trailing  de- 
sign of  roses  on  it,  very  ugly  and  evidently  old.  I 
wondered  if  the  roses  had  bloomed  round  tragedy 
or  comedy,  or  just  that  fluctuation  between  the  two 


8  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

which  makes  up  the  lives  of  most  of  us — an  alternate 
rise  and  fall,  soaring  upward  to  a  height,  dropping 
downward  to  a  hollow. 

Five  years  ago  mine  dropped  to  its  hollow,  and 
ever  since  has  been  struggling  up  to  the  dead  level 
where  it  is  now — ^the  place  where  things  come  with- 
out joy  or  pain,  the  edge  off  everything.  Thirty- 
three  and  the  high  throb  of  expectancy  over,  the  big 
possibilities  left  behind.  The  hiring  of  two  rooms, 
the  hanging  of  a  curtain,  the  placing  of  a  vase — 
these  are  the  things  that  for  me  must  take  the  place 
that  love  and  home  and  children  take  in  other  wom- 
en's lives. 

I  got  this  far  and  stopped.  No,  I  wouldn't.  I 
came  back  from  Europe  to  get  away  from  that.  I 
put  out  the  light  and  cuddled  down  in  the  new  bed. 
Quite  a  good  bed  if  it  is  a  divan,  and  the  room  is  go- 
ing to  be  fairly  quiet.  Muffled  by  walls  I  could  hear 
the  clanging  passage  of  cars.  And  then  far  away  it 
seemed,  though  it  couldn't  have  been,  a  gramophone, 
the  Caruso  record  of  La  Donna  e  Mobile.  What  a 
fine  swaggering  song  and  what  an  outrageous  false- 
hood! Woman  is  changeable — is  she?  That's  the 
man's  privilege.  We,  poor  fools,  haven't  the  sense 
to  do  anything  but  cling,  if  not  to  actualities  to  mem- 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  9 

ories.  I  felt  tears  coming — that  hasn't  happened  for 
years.  My  memories  don't  bring  them,  they  only 
bring  a  sort  of  weary  bitterness.  It  was  the  new  sur- 
roundings, the  loneliness,  that  did  It.  I  stopped  them 
and  listened  to  the  gramophone,  and  the  wretched 
thing  had  begun  on  a  new  record,  Una  Lagrima 
Furtiva — a  furtive  tear ) 

With  my  own  furtive  tears,  wet  on  the  pillow,  I 
couldn't  help  laughing. 


ir 

THERE  IS  one  thing  in  the  front  room  I  must 
get  rid  of — ^the  rug.  It  is  a  nightmare  with  a 
crimson  ground  on  which  are  displayed  broken  white 
particles  that  look  like  animalcula  in  a  magnified 
drop  of  water.  I  had  just  made  up  my  mind  that  it 
must  be  removed  when  Mrs.  Bushey  opportunely 
came  in. 

Mrs.  Bushey  lives  next  door  (she  has  two  houses 
under  her  wing)  and  when  not  landladying,  teaches 
physical  culture.  I  believe  there  is  no  Mr.  Bushey, 
though  whether  death  or  divorce  has  snatched  him 
from  her  I  haven't  heard.  She  is  a  stout  dark  person 
somewhere  from  twenty-eight  to  forty-eight — I  can't 
tell  age.  I  am  thirty -three  and  have  wrinkles  round 
my  eyes.  She  has  none.  It  may  be  temperament,  or 
fat,  or  the  bony  structure  of  the  skull,  or  an  absence 
of  furtive  tears. 

She  talks  much  and  rapidly  which  ought  to  tend 
to  a  good  combination  between  us,  as  listening  is  one 
of  the  things  I  do  best.  From  our  conversation,  or 
perhaps  I  ought  to  say  our  monologue,  I  got  an  im- 

10 


THE   BOOK   OE   EVELYN  ii 

pressionlstic  effect  of  my  fellow  lodgers  past  and 
present.  The  lady  who  lived  here  before  me  was  a 
writer  and  very  close  about  money.  It  was  difficult 
to  collect  her  rent,  also  she  showed  symptoms  of  in- 
ebriety. I  gathered  from  Mrs.  Bushey's  remarks  and 
expression  that  she  expected  me  to  be  shocked,  and 
I  tried  not  to  disappoint  her,  but  I  couldn't  do  much 
with  a  monosyllable,  which  was  all  she  allowed  me. 

A  series  of  rapid  sketches  of  the  present  inmates 
followed.    Something  like  this : 

"Mrs.  Phillips,  the  trained  nurse,  and  her  aunt,  in 
the  basement  are  terrible  cranks,  always  complaining 
about  the  plumbing  and  the  little  boys  who  will  stop 
on  their  way  home  from  school  and  write  bad  words 
on  the  flags.  They  think  they  own  the  back  garden, 
but  they  don't.  We  all  do,  but  what's  the  use  of 
fighting?  I  never  do,  I'll  stand  anything  rather  than 
have  words  with  anybody." 

I  edged  in  an  exclamation,  a  single  formless 
syllable. 

"Of  course,  I  knew- you  would.  Then  on  the  floor 
below  you  are  two  young  Westerners  in  the  back 
room,  Mr.  Hazard,  who's  an  artist,  and  Mr.  Weath- 
erby,  who's  something  on  the  press.  The  most  de- 
lightful fellows,  never  a  day  late  with  their  rent. 


12  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

And  in  the  front  room  is  Miss  Bliss,  a  model — artist 
not  cloak.  She  isn*t  always  on  time  with  her  money, 
but  Fm  very  lenient  with  her." 

I  tried  to  insert  a  sentence,  but  it  was  nipped  at  the 
second  word. 

"Yes,  exactly.  You  see  just  how  it  is.  On  the 
floor  above  you,  in  the  back,  is  Mr.  Hamilton,  such  a 
nice  man  and  so  unfortunate.  Lost  every  cent  he  had 
in  Wall  Street  and  is  beginning  all  over  again. 
Fine,  isn't  it?  Yes,  I  feel  it  and  don't  say  anything 
when  he's  behind  with  his  rent.  How  could  I?" 
Though  I  hadn't  said  a  word  she  looked  at  me  re- 
provingly as  if  I  had  suggested  sending  the  de- 
linquent Mr.  Hamilton  to  jail.  'That's  not  my  way. 
I  know  it's  foolish  of  me.  You  needn't  tell  me  so,  but 
that's  how  I'm  made." 

I  began  to  feel  that  I  ought  to  offer  my  next 
month's  rent  at  once.  I  have  a.  bad  memory  and 
might  be  a  day  or  two  late. 

"The  room  in  front,  over  your  parlor,  is  vacant. 
Terrible,  isn't  it?  I  tried  to  make  Mr.  Hamilton  take 
the  whole  floor  through.  Even  if  he  isn't  good 
pay-" 

I  broke  in,  determined  to  hear  no  more  of  Mr. 
Hamilton's  financial  deficiencies. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  13 

"Who's  on  the  top  floor?" 

There  was  a  slight  abatement  of  Mrs.  Bushey^s 
buoyancy.  She  looked  at  me  with  an  eye  that  ex- 
pressed both  curiosity  and  question. 

"Miss  Harris  lives  there,"  she  answered.  "Have 
you  seen  her?" 

I  hadn't 

"Perhaps  you've  heard  her?" 

I  had  heard  a  rustle  on  the  stairs,  was  that  Miss 
Harris? 

"Yes.   She's  the  only  woman  above  you." 

"Does  she  leave  a  trail  of  perfume?" 

I  was  going  to  add  that  it  didn't  mix  well  with 
the  gas  leakage,  the  cigars  and  last  year's  cooking 
but  refrained  for  fear  of  Mrs.  Bushey's  feelings. 

"Yes,  that's  Miss  Harris.  She's  a  singer — pro- 
fessional. But  you  won't  hear  her  much,  there's  a 
floor  in  between.  That  is,  unless  you  leave  the  reg- 
ister open." 

I  said  I'd  shut  the  register. 

"I  don't  take  singers  as  a  rule,"  Mrs.  Bushey  went 
on,  "but  Mr.  Hamilton  being  away  all  day  and  the 
top  floor  being  hard  to  rent,  I  made  an  exception. 
One  must  live,  mustn't  one?" 

I  could  agree  to  that 


14  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

"She's  a  Californian  and  rather  good-looking. 
But  I  don't  think  she's  had  much  success." 

A  deprecating  look  came  into  her  face  and  she 
tilted  her  head  to  one  side.  I  felt  coming  revela- 
tions about  Miss  Harris'  rent  and  said  hastily : 

"What  does  she  sing,  concert,  opera,  musical 
comedy  ?" 

"She's  hardly  sung  in  public  at  all  yet.  She's 
studying,  and  I'm  afraid  that  it's  very  uncertain. 
Last  month — " 

I  interrupted  desperately. 

"Is  she  a  contralto  or  soprano?'* 

"Dramatic  mezzo,"  said  Mrs.  Bushey.  "She's 
trying  to  get  an  opening,  but,"  she  compressed  her 
lips  and  shook  her  head  gloomily,  "there  are  so 
many  of  them  and  her  voice  is  nothing  wonderful. 
But  she  evidently  has  some  money,  for  she  pays  her 
rent  regularly." 

I  felt  immensely  relieved.  As  Mrs.  Bushey  rose  to 
her  feet  I  too  rose  lightly,  encouragingly  smiling. 
Mrs.  Bushey  did  not  exhibit  the  cheer  fitting  to  the 
possession  of  so  satisfactory  a  lodger.  She  buttoned 
her  jacket,  murmuring: 

"I  don't  like  taking  singers,  people  complain  so. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  15 

But  when  one  is  working  for  one's  living — '*  Her 
fingers  struggled  with  a  button. 

"Of  course,"  I  filled  in,  "I  understand.  And  I 
for  one  won't  object  to  the  music." 

Mrs.  Bushey  seemed  appeased.  As  she  finished 
the  buttoning  she  looked  about  the  room,  her  glance 
roaming  over  my  possessions.  For  some  obscure  rea- 
son I  flinched  before  that  inspection.  Some  of  them 
are  sacred,  relics  of  my  mother  and  of  the  years 
when  I  was  a  wife — only  a  few  of  these.  Mrs. 
Bushey's  look  was  like  an  auctioneer's  hand  finger- 
ing them,  appraising  their  value. 

Finally  it  fell  to  the  rug.  I  had  forgotten  it;  now 
was  my  chance.  Suddenly  it  seemed  a  painful  sub- 
ject to  broach  and  I  sought  for  a  tactful  opening. 
Mrs.  Bushey  pressed  its  crimson  surface  with  her 
foot. 

"Isn't  this  a  beautiful  rug?"  she  said.  "Ifs  a 
real  Samarcand." 

I  smothered  a  start.  I  had  had  a  real  Samarcand 
once. 

Mrs.  Bushey,  eying  the  magnified  insects  with' 
solicitude,  continued : 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  tell  you  how  much  I  paid  for 


i6  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

this.  It  was  a  ridiculous  sum  for  me  to  give.  But  I 
love  pretty  things,  and  when  you  took  the  apartment 
I  put  it  in  here  because  I  saw  at  once  you  were  used 
to  only  the  best." 

I  murmured  faintly. 

"So  I  was  generous  and  gave  you  my  treasure. 
You  will  be  careful  of  it,  won't  you  ?  Not  drop  any- 
thing on  it  or  let  people  come  in  with  muddy  boots.'* 

I  said  I  would.  I  found  myself  engaging  with 
ardor  to  love  and  cherish  a  thing  I  abhorred.  It's 
happened  before,  it's  the  kind  of  thing  I've  been 
doing  all  my  life. 

Mrs.  Bushey  gave  it  a  loving  stroke  with  her  foot. 

"I  knew  you'd  appreciate  it.  You  don't  often  find 
a  real  Samarcand  in  a  furnished  apartment." 

After  she  had  gone  I  sat  looking  dejectedly  at  it. 
Of  course  I  would  have  to  keep  it  now.  I  might  buy 
some  small  rugs  and  partly  cover  it  up,  but  I  sup- 
pose, when  she  saw  them,  she  would  be  mortally 
hurt.  And  I  can't  do  that.  I'd  rather  have  those 
awful  magnified  insects  staring  up  at  me  for  the  rest 
of  my  life  than  wound  her  pride  so. 

As  to  its  being  a  Samarcand — I  took  up  one  cor- 
ner and  lo!  attached  to  it  by  a  string  was  a  price- 
tag  bearing  the  legend,  Scotch  wool  rug,  $12.75. 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  17 

It  was  somewhat  of  a  shock.  Suppose  I  had  found 
it  while  she  was  there !  The  thought  of  such  a  con- 
tretemps made  me  cold.  To  avoid  all  possibilities  of 
it  ever  happening  I  stealthily  detached  the  tag  and 
tore  it  into  tiny  pieces.  As  I  dropped  them  in  the 
waste-basket  I  had  a  fancy  that  had  I  made  the  dis- 
covery while  she  was  present,  I  would  have  been 
the  more  embarrassed  of  the  two. 

All  afternoon  I  have  been  putting  things  in  order, 
trying  them  and  standing  back  to  get  the  effect.  It's 
a  long  time  since  I've  had  belongings  of  my  own  to 
play  with.  I  hung  my  mother's  two  Kriegolf's 
(Kriegolf  was  a  Canadian  artist  who  painted  pic- 
tures of  habitan  life)  in  four  different  places.  They 
finally  came  to  anchor  on  the  parlor  wall  on  either 
side  of  a  brass-framed  mirror  with  candle  branches 
that  belongs  to  Mrs.  Bushey.  Opposite,  flanking  the 
fireplace,  are  Kitty  O'Brien  and  The  Wax  Head 
of  Lille.  I  love  her  best  of  all,  the  dreaming 
maiden.  I  like  to  try  and  guess  what  she's  thinking 
of.  Is  it  just  the  purposeless  reverie  of  youth,  or  is 
she  musing  on  the  coming  lover?  It  can't  be  that, 
because,  while  he's  still  a  dream  lover,  a  girl  is 
happy,  and  she  looks  so  sad. 

I  was  trying  to  pierce  the  secret  of  that  mysterious 


i8  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

face  when  the  telephone  rang.  It  was  Roger  Clem- 
ents, a  kind  voice  humming  along  the  line — "Well, 
how's  everything?"  Roger  wanted  to  come  up  and 
see  me  and  the  kitchenette,  and  I  told  him  Madame 
would  receive  to-morrow  evening. 

He  would  be  my  first  visitor  and  I  was  fluttered. 
I  spent  at  least  an  hour  trying  to  decide  whether  I'd 
better  bring  the  Morris  chair  from  the  back  room 
for  him.  When  the  dread  of  starvation  is  lifted  from 
you  by  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  dollars  a  month 
and  life  offers  nothing,  you  find  your  mental  forces 
expending  themselves  on  questions  like  that.  I  once 
knew  a  man  who  told  me  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his 
bed  every  morning  struggling  to  decide  whether 
he'd  put  on  a  turned-down  or  a  stand-up  collar.  He 
said  it  was  nerves.  In  my  x:ase  it's  just  plain  lack 
of  interests. 

It's  natural  for  me  to  try  and  make  Roger  com- 
fortable. He's  one  of  the  best  friends  I  have  in  the 
world.  I'm  not  using  the  word  to  cover  sentiment,  I 
do  really  mean  a  friend.  He  knew  me  before  I  was 
married,  was  one  of  the  reliable  older  men  in  those 
glowing  days  when  I  was  Evelyn  Carr,  before  I  met 
Harmon  Drake.  He  has  been  kind  to  me  in  ways  I 
never  can  forget.    In  those  dark  last  years  of  my 


THE    BOOK   OE    EVELYN  19 

married  life  (there  were  only  five  of  them  alto- 
gether) when  my  little  world  was  urging  divorce 
and  I  stood  distracted  amid  falling  ruins,  he  never 
said  one  word  to  me  about  my  husband,  never  forced 
on  me  consolation  or  advice.  I  don't  forget  that,  or 
the  letter  he  wrote  me  when  Harmon  died — ^the  one 
honest  letter  I  got. 

Everybody  exclaimed  when  I  said  I  was  going 
alone  to  Europe.  Roger  was  the  only  one  who  un- 
derstood and  told  me  to  go.  I'll  carry  to  my  grave 
the  memory  of  his  face  as  he  stood  on  the  dock  wav- 
ing me  good-by.  He  was  smiling,  but  under  the 
smile  I  could  see  the  sympathy  he  wanted  me  to 
know  and  didn't  dare  to  put  in  words.  That's  one  of 
the  ties  between  us — we're  the  silent  kind  who  keep 
our  feelings  hidden  away  in  a  Bluebeard's  chamber 
of  which  we  keep  the  key. 

I  used  to  hear  from  him  off  and  on  in  Europe,  and 
I  followed  him  in  the  American  papers.  I  remember 
one  sun-soaked  morning  in  Venice,  when  I  picked 
up  an  English  review  in  the  pension  and  read  a 
glowing  criticism  of  his  book  of  essays.  Readjust- 
ments. How  proud  I  was  of  him!  He's  become 
quite  famous  in  these  last  few  years,  not  vulgarly 
famous  but  known  among  scholars  as  a  scholar  and 


20  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

recognized  as  one  of  the  few  stylists  we  have  over 
here.  I  can't  imagine  him  on  the  news-stalls,  or 
bound  in  paper  for  the  masses.  I  think  he  secretly 
detests  the  masses  though  he  won't  admit  it.  The 
mob,  with  its  easily  swayed  passions,  is  the  sort  of 
thing  that  it's  in  his  blood  to  hate.  If  he  had  to 
sue  for  its  support  like  Coriolanus  he  would  act 
exactly  as  Coriolanus  did.  Fortunately  he  doesn't 
need  it.  The  Clements  have  had  money  for  genera- 
tions, not  according  to  Pittsburgh  standards,  but  the 
way  the  Clements  reckon  money.  He  has  an  apart- 
ment on  Gramercy  Park,  lined  with  books  to  the 
ceilings,  with  a  pair  of  old  servants  to  fuss  over  him 
and  keep  the  newspaper  people  away. 

There  he  leads  the  intellectual  life,  the  only  one 
that  attracts  him.  He  rarely  goes  into  society.  The  re- 
cent invasion  of  multi-millionaires  have  spoiled  it, 
his  sister,  Mrs.  Ashworth,  says,  and  on  these  points 
he  and  she  think  alike.  And  he  doesn't  care  for 
women,  at  least  to  fall  in  love  with  them.  When  he 
was  a  young  man,  twenty-four  to  be  accurate,  he 
was  engaged  to  a  girl  who  died.  Since  then  his  in- 
terest in  the  other  sex  has  taken  the  form  of  a  de- 
tached impersonal  admiration.    He  thinks  they  fur- 


THE    BOOK   OF.   EVELYN  21 

nish  the  color  and  poetry  of  life  and  in  that  way  have 
an  esthetic  value  in  a  too  sober  world. 

But  what's  the  sense  of  analyzing  your  friend? 
He's  a  dear  kind  anchorite  of  a  man,  just  a  bit  set, 
just  a  bit  inclined  to  think  that  the  Clements'  way 
of  doing  things  is  the  only  way,  just  a  bit  too  con- 
temptuous of  cheapness  and  bad  taste  and  bounce, 
but  with  all  his  imperfections  on  his  head,  the  finest 
gentleman  I  know.  I  will  move  the  Morris  chair. 


Ill 

IOVE  of  flowers  is  one  of  the  gifts  the  fairies  gave 
^  me  in  my  cradle.  It's  a  great  possession,  fills 
so  many  blanks.  You  can  forget  you've  got  no  baby 
of  your  own  when  you  watch  the  flowers*  babies 
lifting  their  little  faces  to  the  sun. 

I  bought  four  plants  at  Bloomingdales  and  put 
them  in  the  front  window,  a  juniper  bush,  a  Boston 
fern,  a  carrot  fern  and  a  rubber  plant.  I  like  the 
ferns  best,  the  new  shoots  are  so  lovely,  pushing  up 
little  green  curly  tops  in  the  shelter  of  the  old  strong 
ones.  I  remind  myself  of  Miss  Lucretia  Tox  in 
Domhey  and  Son,  with  a  watering  can  and  a  pair  of 
scissors  to  snip  off  dead  leaves.  There's  one  great 
difference  between  us — Miss  Tox  had  a  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  across  the  way.  I've  nothing  across  the  way. 
The  only  male  being  that  that  discreet  and  expres- 
sionless row  of  houses  has  given  up  to  my  eyes  is 
the  young  doctor  opposite.  He  does  the  same  thing 
every  morning,  runs  down  the  steps  with  a  bag  and 
a  busy  air,  walks  rapidly  to  Lexington  Avenue, 

22 


THE    BOOK   OF   EVELYN  as 

then,  when  he  thinks  he's  out  of  sight,  stands  on  the 
comer  not  knowing  which  way  to  go. 

I  feel  that,  in  a  purely  neighborly  spirit,  I  ought 
to  have  an  illness.  I  would  like  to  help  all  young 
people  starting  in  business,  take  all  the  hansoms 
that  go  drearily  trailing  along  Fifth  Avenue,  es- 
pecially if  the  driver  looks  drunken  and  despondent, 
and  give  money  to  every  beggar  who  accosts  me. 
They  say  it  is  a  bad  principle  and  one  is  always 
swindled.  Personally  I  don't  think  that  matters  at 
all.  Your  impulse  is  all  right  and  that's  all  that 
counts.  But  I  digress  again — I  must  get  over  the 
habit. 

This  morning  I  was  doing  my  Miss  Lucretia  Tox 
act  when  Betty  Ferguson  came  in.  Betty  is  one  of 
my  rich  friends;  we  were  at  school  together  and 
have  kept  close  ever  since.  She  married  Harry- 
Ferguson  the  same  year  that  I  married  Harmon 
Drake.  Now  she  has  three  children,  and  a  house  on 
Fifth  Avenue,  not  to  mention  Harry.  Her  crumpled 
rose  leaf  is  that  she  is  getting  fat.  Every  time  I 
see  her  she  says  resolutely,  **I  am  going  to  walk 
twice  round  the  reservoir  to-morrow  morning,"  and 
never  does  it. 

She   came   in   blooming,   with   a  purple   orchid 


24  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

among  her  furs,  and  the  rich  rosy  color  in  her  face 
deepened  by  the  first  nip  of  winter.  She  has  a 
sharp  eye,  and  I  expected  she  would  immediately 
see  the  rug  and  demand  an  explanation.  I  was 
slightly  flustered,  for  I  have  no  excuse  ready  and  I 
never  can  confess  my  weaknesses  to  Betty.  She  is 
one  of  the  sensible  people  who  don't  see  why  you 
can't  be  sensible,  too. 

She  did  not,  however,  notice  the  rug,  but  clasp- 
ing my  hand  fixed  me  with  a  solemn  glance  that 
made  me  uneasy.  Betty  oblivious  to  externals — 
what  had  I  done? 

*'Who  was  the  woman  I  met  coming  out  of  here 
just  now?"  she  said  abruptly. 

"Mrs.  Bushey,"  I  hazarded,  and  then  remembered 
Mrs.  Bushey  was  off  somewhere  imparting  physical 
culture. 

"Is  Mrs.  Bushey  very  tall  and  thin  with  black 
hair  and  a  velvet  dress,  and  a  hat  as  big  as  a  tea 
tray?" 

"No,  she's  short  and  stout  and — " 

"Evie,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ferguson,  sounding  a 
deep  note,  "that  woman  wasn't  Mrs.  Bushey.  Nobody 
who  looked  like  that  ever  leased  an  eighteen-foot 
house  and  rented  out  floors." 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  25 

I  had  a  sudden  surge  of  memory — 

"It  must  have  been  Miss  Harris." 

Betty  loosed  my  hand  and  sank  upon  the  sofa, 
that  is,  she  subsided  carefully  upon  the  sofa,  as  erect 
as  a  statue  from  the  waist  up.  She  threw  back  her 
furs  with  a  disregard  for  the  orchid  that  made  me 
wince. 

"Who's  Miss  Harris  ?"  she  said  sternly. 

I  told  her  all  I  knew. 

"That's  just  what  she  looked  like — the  stage.  Are 
there  any  more  of  them  here?" 

I  assured  her  there  were  not.  She  gazed  out  of 
the  window  with  a  pondering  air. 

"After  all,  there  are  respectable  people  on  the 
stage,"  she  said,  following  some  subterranean  course 
of  thought. 

I  knew  my  Betty  and  hastened  to  reassure  her — 

"She's  on  the  top  floor.  Her  contaminating  in- 
fluence, if  she  has  one,  would  have  to  percolate 
through  another  apartment  before  it  got  to  me." 

She  did  not  smile  and  I  did  not  expect  it.  Mrs. 
Ferguson  has  no  sense  of  humor,  and  that's  one  of 
the  reasons  I  love  her.  There  is  an  obsession  in  the 
public  mind  just  now  about  the  sense  of  humor.  Peo- 
ple ask  anxiously  if  other  people  have  it  as  Napoleon 


26  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

used  to  ask  if  attractive  ladies  he  had  wooed  in  vain 
"were  still  virtuous."  If s  like  being  a  bromide- 
Give  me  a  bromide,  a  humorless,  soft,  cushiony  bro- 
mide, rather  than  those  exhausting  people  who  have 
established  a  reputation  for  wit  and  are  living  up  to 
it  Betty  is  not  soft  and  cushiony,  but  she  is  always 
herself. 

"I  wish  you  could  live  in  a  house  of  your  own  like 
a  Christian,"  she  said. 

We  have  talked  over  this  before.  This  subject 
has  an  embarrassing  side — Fll  explain  it  later — so  I 
hastened  to  divert  her. 

"Why  should  you  be  wrought  up  over  Miss  Har- 
ris? Vm  sure  from  what  Mrs.  Bushey  tells  me  she's  a 
very  nice  person,"  and  then  I  remembered  and 
added  brightly :   "She  always  pays  her  rent." 

Betty  gave  me  a  somber  side  glance. 

"She's  very  handsome." 

"There  are  handsome  people  who  are  perfectly 
convenable.    You're  handsome,  Betty." 

Betty  was  unmoved. 

"At  any  rate  you  needn't  know  her,"  she  said. 

"Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  say  *Howd'ye  do'  if 
I  meet  her  on  the  stairs  ?" 

"No,  why  should  you?  The  next  thing  would  be 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  27 

she*d  be  coming  into  your  rooms  and  then,  some 
day,  she'd  come  when  somebody  you  liked  was 
there." 

She  clasped  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  drew  Her- 
self up,  her  head  so  erect  the  double  chin  she  fears 
was  visible.  In  this  attitude  she  kept  a  cold  eye  on 
me. 

"And  all  because  she's  handsome  and  wears  a  hat 
as  big  as  a  tea  tray,"  I  said,  trying  to  treat  the  sub- 
ject lightly,  but  inwardly  conscious  of  a  perverse  de- 
sire to  champion  Miss  Harris. 

Betty,  wreathing  her  neck  about  in  the  tight  grip 
of  her  collar,  removed  her  glance  to  the  window, 
out  of  which  she  stared  haughtily  as  though  Miss 
Harris  was  standing  on  the  tin  roof  supplicating  an 
entrance. 

"We  can't  be  too  careful  in  this  town,"  she  mur- 
mured, shaking  her  head  as  if  refusing  Miss  Harris' 
hopes.  Then  she  looked  down  at  the  floor.  I  saw 
her  expression  changing  as  her  eye  ranged  over  the 
rug. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  rug,  Evie?"  she  asked 
in  a  quiet  tone. 

I  grew  nervous. 

"It  came  with  the  apartment." 


28  THE    BOOK   OF.   EVELYN 

"Get  rid  of  it,  dear,  at  once.  I  can  send  you  up 
one  from  the  library.  Harry/s  going  to  give  me  a 
new  Aubusson." 

I  became  more  nervous  and  faltered: 

"But  I  ought  to  keep  this." 

"Why  ?  Is  there  a  clause  in  your  lease  that  youVe 
got  to  use  it?" 

When  Betty  gets  me  against  the  wall  this  way  I 
become  frightened.  Timid  animals,  thus  cornered, 
are  seized  with  the  courage  of  despair  and  fly  at 
their  assailant.  Timid  human  beings  show  much  less 
spirit — I  always  think  animals  behave  with  more 
dignity  than  people — they  tell  lies. 

"But— but— I  like  it,"  I  stammered. 

"Oh,"  said  Betty  with  a  falling  note,  "if  that's 
the  case — "  She  stopped  and  rose  to  her  feet,  too 
polite  to  say  what  she  thought.  "Put  on  your  things 
and  come  out  with  me.  I'm  shopping,  and  afterward 
we'll  lunch  somewhere." 

I  went  out  with  Betty  in  the  car,  a  limousine  with 
two  men  and  a  chow  dog.  We  went  to  shops  where 
obsequious  salesladies  listened  to  Mrs.  Ferguson's 
needs  and  sought  to  satisfy  them.  They  had  a  con- 
ciliating way  of  turning  to  me  and  asking  my  opinion 
which,  such  is  the  poverty  of  my  spirit,  pleased  me 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  29 

greatly.  I  get  a  faint  reflex  feeling  of  what  it  is  to  be 
the  wife  of  one  of  New  York's  rising  men.  Then  we 
lunched  richly  and  clambered  back  into  the  limou- 
sine, each  dropping  languidly  into  her  corner  while 
the  footman  tucked  us  in. 

We  were  rolling  luxuriously  down  Fifth  Avenue 
when  Betty  rallied  sufficiently  from  the  torpor  of 
digestion  to  murmur. 

"To-morrow  morning,  after  breakfast,  I'll  walk 
three  times  round  the  reservoir." 

Roger  came  at  eight.  It  was  the  first  cold  night 
of  the  season  and  the  furnace  was  not  broken  in.  In 
spite  of  lamps  the  room  was  chilly.  It  was  good  to 
see  him  again — in  my  parlor,  in  my  Morris  chair. 
He  isn't  handsome,  a  long  thin  man,  with  a  long 
thin  face,  smooth  shaven  and  lined,  and  thick,  sleek, 
iron-gray  hair.  Some  one  has  said  all  that  a  man 
should  have  in  the  way  of  beauty  is  good  teeth. 
Roger  has  that  necessary  asset  and  another  one, 
well-shaped,  gentlemanly  hands,  very  supple  and  a 
trifle  dry  to  the  touch.  And,  yes,  he  has  a  charming 
smile. 

He  is  forty-two  and  hasn't  changed  a  particle  in 
the  last  fifteen  years.  Why  can't  a  woman  manage 
that  ?  When  I  was  dressing  to-night  I  looked  in  the 


30  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

glass  and  tried  to  reconstruct  my  face  as  it  was 
fifteen  years  ago.  I  promised  to  be  a  pretty  girl  then, 
but  it  was  just  the  fleeting  beauty  that  nature  gives 
us  in  our  mating  time,  lends  us  for  her  own  purposes. 
Now  I  see  a  pale  mild  person  with  flat-lying  brown 
hair  and  that  beaten  expression  peculiar  to  females 
whom  life  conquers.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  the 
mouth  or  the  eyes,  but  I  see  it  often  in  faces  I  pass 
on  the  street. 

It  was  a  funny  evening — conversation  varied  by 
chamber  music.  We  began  it  sitting  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  on  either  side  of  the  table  like  the  family 
lawyer  and  the  heroine  in  the  opening  scene  of  a 
play.  Then,  as  the  temperature  dropped,  we  slowly 
gravitated  toward  the  register,  till  we  finally  brought 
up  against  it.  A  faint  warm  breath  came  through 
the  iron  grill  and  we  leaned  forward  and  basked  in 
it.  We  were  talking  about  women.  We  often  do,  it's 
one  of  our  subjects.  Of  course  Roger  is  of  the  old 
school.  He's  got  an  early  Victorian  point  of  view; 
I  know  he  would  value  me  more  highly  if  I  swooned 
now  and  then.  He  doesn't  call  women  "the  weaker 
vessel,"  but  he  thinks  of  them  that  way. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  can't  be  content  with  things 
as  they  are,"  he  said,  spreading  his  hands  to  the 


THE    BOOK   OF   EVELYN  31 

register's  meager  warmth.  "Why  should  you  want 
to  go  into  politics  and  have  professions?  Why  aren't 
you  willing  to  leave  all  that  to  us  and  stay  where  you 
belong?" 

"But  we  may  not  have  anything  to  do  where  we 
belong.  Roger,  if  you  move  nearer  the  corner  you'll 
get  a  little  more  heat." 

Roger  moved. 

"Every  woman  has  work  in  her  own  sphere,"  he 
said,  while  moving. 

"I  haven't." 

"You,  dear  Evie,"  he  looked  at  me  with  a  fond 
indulgent  smile.  "You  have  plenty  of  work  and  it's 
always  well  done — to  bring  romance  and  sweetness 
into  life." 

There  is  something  quite  maddening  about  Roger 
when  he  talks  this  way.  I  could  find  it  In  me  to  call 
him  an  ass.  All  the  superiority  of  countless  genera- 
tions of  men  who  have  ordered  women's  lives  lies 
behind  it.  And  he  is  impregnable,  shut  up  with  his 
idea.  It  is  built  round  him  and  cemented  with  a 
thousand  years  of  prejudice  and  tradition. 

"I  don't  want  to  bring  romance  and  sweetness  into 
life,"  I  said  crossly,  "I  want  to  get  something  out 
of  it." 


32  THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN 

"You  can*t  help  it.  It's  what  you  were  put  in  the 
world  for.  We  men  don't  want  you  in  the  struggle. 
That's  for  us.  It's  our  business  to  go  down  into  the 
arena  and  fight  for  you,  make  a  place  for  you,  keep 
you  out  of  it  all." — He  moved  his  foot  across  the 
register  and  turned  it  off. 

*'You've  turned  off  the  heat/'  I  cried. 

He  turned  it  on. 

— "Keep  you  out  of  it  all.  Sheltered  from  the 
noise  and  glare  of  the  world  by  our  own  firesides." 

"Some  of  us  would  rather  have  a  little  more  noise 
and  glare  by  our  own  register." 

"All  wrong,  Evie,  all  wrong.  You're  in  a  niche 
up  there  with  a  lamp  burning  before  it.  If  you  come 
down  from  your  niche  you're  going  to  lose  the  thing 
that's  made  you  worshipful — ^your  femininity,  your 
charm." 

"What  does  our  charm  matter  to  us  ?  What  good 
is  our  femininity  to  us  ?" 

He  looked  surprised. 

"What  good?" 

"Look  here,  Roger,  I  feel  certain  that  Shem,  Ham 
and  Japheth  talked  this  way  to  their  wives  on  those 
rainy  days  in  the  Ark.  It's  not  only  a  pre-glacial 
point  of  view,  but  it's  the  most  colossally  selfish  one. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  33 

All  you  men  are  worried  about  is  that  we're  not  go- 
ing to  be  so  attractive  to  make  love  to.  The  chase 
is  going  to  lose  its  zest — " 

I  stopped  short,  cut  off  by  a  flood  of  sound  that 
iuddenly  burst  upon  us  from  the  register. 

It  was  a  woman's  voice  singing  Musetta's  song, 
and  by  its  clearness  and  volume  seemed  to  be  the 
breath  of  the  register  become  vocal.  We  started  back 
simultaneously  and  looked  about  the  room,  while 
Musetta's  song  poured  over  us,  a  rich  jubilant  torrent 
of  melody. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Roger,  rising  as  if  to  defend 
me. 

"Miss  Harris,"  I  answered,  jumping  up. 

"Who's  Miss  Harris?" 

"A  singer.    She  lives  here." 

"Does  she  live  in  there?"  He  pointed  to  tHe  reg- 
ister. 

"No,  on  the  top  floor,  but  it  connects  with  her 
room." 

We  stood  still  and  listened,  and  as  the  song  rose 
to  its  brilliant  climax,  Roger  looked  at  me  smiling, 
and  nodded  approvingly.  In  his  heart  he  thinks  he 
is  something  of  a  musician,  has  season  seats  at  the 
opera  and  goes  dutifully  to  the  Symphony.    I  don't 


34  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

think  he  is  any  more  musical  than  I  am.  I  don't 
think  literary  people  ever  are.  They  like  it  with 
their  imaginations,  feel  its  sensuous  appeal,  but  as 
to  experiencing  those  esoteric  raptures  that  the  in- 
itiated know — it's  a  joy  denied. 

The  song  came  to  an  end. 

"Not  a  bad  voice,"  said  Roger.    "Who  is  she?" 

"A  lady  who  is  studying  to  be  a  professional." 
And  then  I  added  spitefully :  "Do  you  think  she 
ought  to  give  up  her  singing  to  be  sheltered  by 
somebody's  fireside?" 

Roger  had  turned  to  get  his  coat.  He  stopped  and 
looked  at  me  over  his  shoulder,  smiling — he  really 
has  a  delightful  smile. 

"I  except  ladies  with  voices." 

"Because  they  add  to  the  pleasure  of  gentlemen 
with  musical  tastes?" 

He  picked  up  his  coat. 

"Evie,  one  of  the  things  that  strengthens  me  in 
my  belief  is  that  when  you  get  on  that  subject  you 
become  absolutely  acid." 

I  helped  him  on  with  his  coat. 

My  sitting-room  door  opens  close  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs.  If  my  visitors  back  out  politely  they  run 
a  risk  of  stepping  over  the  edge  and  falling  down- 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  35 

stairs  on  their  backs.  The  one  gas-jet  that  burns  all 
the  time  is  a  safeguard  against  this  catastrophe,  but, 
as  it  is  an  uncertain  and  timid  flicker,  I  speed  the 
parting  guest  with  caution. 

Roger  was  backing  out  with  his  hat  held  to  his 
breast  when  I  gave  a  warning  cry.  It  went  echoing 
up  the  stairway  and  mingled  with  the  sound  of  heavy 
descending  feet.  A  head  looked  over  the  upper  ban- 
ister, a  dark  masculine  head,  and  seeing  nothing 
more  alarming  than  a  lady  and  gentleman  in  an  open 
doorway,  withdrew  itself.  The  steps  descended,  a 
hand  glided  down  the  rail,  and  a  large  overcoated 
shape  came  into  view.  The  frightened  gas-jet  shot 
up  as  if  caught  in  a  dereliction  of  duty,  and  the  man, 
advancing  toward  us,  was  clearly  revealed. 

I  am  a  person  of  sudden  attractions  and  antip- 
athies and  I  had  one,  sharp  and  poignant,  as  I 
looked  at  him.  It  was  an  antipathy,  the  ''I-do-not- 
like-you-Doctor-Fell"  feeling  in  its  most  acute  form. 
It  was  evidently  not  reciprocal,  for,  as  he  drew  near, 
he  smiled,  an  easy  natural  smile  that  disclosed  singu- 
larly large  white  teeth.  He  gave  me  an  impression 
of  size  and  breadth,  his  shoulders  seemed  to  fill  the 
narrow  passage  and  he  carried  them  with  an  arro- 
gant swagger.    That  and  the  stare  he  fixed  on  U3 


36  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

probably  caused  the  "Doctor  Fell"  feeling.  The 
stare  was  bold  and  hard,  a  combination  of  inspection 
and  curiosity. 

He  added  a  nod  to  his  smile,  passed  us  and  went 
down  the  stairs.  We  looked  down  on  his  wide  de- 
scending shoulders  and  the  top  of  his  head,  with  the 
hair  thin  in  the  middle. 

"Who's  that  bounder?"  said  Roger. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea." 

"Didn't  he  bow  to  you?" 

"Yes,  but  that  doesn't  make  me  know  him.  He 
must  be  some  one  living  in  the  house." 

Roger  looked  after  him. 

"I'm  coming  up  here  to  see  you  often,"  he  said 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

After  he  had  gone  I  went  into  the  back  room  and 
lit  lights  and  peeled  off  the  outer  skins  of  my  divan 
bed.  I  felt  quite  gay  and  light-hearted.  I  am  going 
to  like  it  here.  With  the  student  lamp  lighted  the 
back  room  is  very  cozy.  I  lay  in  bed  and  surveyed  it 
admiringly  while  my  ancestors  looked  soberly  down 
on  me.  They  are  a  very  solemn  lot,  all  but  the 
French  Huguenot  lady  with  her  frivolous  curls  and 
the  black  velvet  round  her  neck.  She  has  a  human 
look.    I'm  sure  her  blood  is  strong  in  me.    None  of 


THE   BOOK  OF   EVELYN  17 

the  others  would  ever  have  lived  in  an  eighteen-foot 
house  with  a  prima  donna  singing  through  the  reg- 
ister, and  a  queer-looking  man,  with  large  white 
teeth,  smiling  at  one  in  the  passage. 


IV 

I  HAVE  seen  her — and  I  don't  wonder ! 
It  was  on  Tuesday  evening  just  as  the  dusk  was 
falling.  I  had  come  home  from  a  walk,  and  as  I 
climbed  the  first  narrow  stair  I  saw  in  the  hall  above 
me,  a  woman  standing  under  the  gas,  reading  a  let- 
ter. I  caught  her  in  silhouette,  a  black  form,  very 
tall  and  broadening  out  into  a  wide  hat,  but  even 
that  way,  without  feature  or  detail,  arresting.  Then, 
as  she  heard  me,  she  stepped  back  so  that  the  light 
fell  on  her.  I  knew  at  once  it  was  Miss  Harris,  tried 
not  to  stare,  and  couldn't  help  it. 

She  is  really  remarkably  good-looking — an  oval- 
faced,  dark-eyed  woman,  with  black  hair  growing 
low  on  her  forehead  and  waving  backward  over  her 
ears.  Either  the  size  of  the  hat,  or  her  earrings 
(they  were  long  and  green),  or  a  collarless  effect 
about  the  neck,  gave  her  a  picturesque,  unconven- 
tional air.  The  stage  was  written  large  all  over  her. 
When  I  got  close  I  saw  details,  that  she  had  beauti- 
fully curly  lips — most  people's  come  together  in  a 

38 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  39 

straight  line  like  a  box  and  its  lid — and  a  fine  nose, 
just  in  the  right  proportion  to  the  rest  of  her  face. 
Also  she  wore  a  gray  fur  coat,  unfastened,  and  some- 
thing in  her  appearance  suggested  a  hurried  dress- 
ing, things  flung  on. 

She  looked  up  from  the  letter  and  eyed  me  with 
frank  interest.  I  approached  embarrassed.  A  secret 
desire  to  have  all  people  like  me  is  one  of  my  beset- 
ting weaknesses.  I  am  slavish  to  servants  and  feel 
grateful  when  salesladies  condescend  to  address  me 
while  waiting  for  change.  The  fear  that  Betty  would 
find  it  out  could  not  make  me  pass  Miss  Harris  with- 
out a  word.  So  I  timidly  smiled — a  deprecating, 
apologetic  smile,  a  smile  held  in  bondage  by  the 
memory  of  Mrs.  Ferguson. 

Miss  Harris  returned  it  brilliantly.  Her  face  sud- 
denly bore  the  expression  of  one  who  greets  a 
cherished  friend.  She  moved  toward  me  radiating 
welcome. 

"You're  on  the  third  floor,"  she  said  in  a  rich 
voice,  "Mrs.  Harmon  Drake." 

I  saw  a  hand  extended  and  felt  mine  enclosed  in 
a  grasp  that  matched  the  smile  and  manner.  Miss 
Harris  towered  over  me — she  must  be  nearly  six 
feet  high — and  I  felt  myself  growing  smaller  and 


40  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

paler  than  the  Lord  intended  me  to  be  before  that 
exuberantly  beaming  presence.  My  hand  was  like  a 
little  bundle  of  cold  sticks  in  her  enfolding  grip.  I 
backed  against  the  banisters  and  tried  to  pull  it 
away,  but  Miss  Harris  held  it  and  beamed. 

"I've  read  your  name  on  your  door  every  time 
I've  passed,"  she  said,  "and  I've  hoped  you'd  some 
day  open  the  door  and  find  me  standing  there  and 
ask  me  to  come  in." 

I  could  see  Betty's  head  nodding  at  me,  I  could 
hear  her  grim  "I  told  you  so." 

I  made  polite  murmurs  and  pressed  closer  to  the 
banister. 

"But  the  door  was  never  opened,"  said  Miss  Har- 
ris, bending  to  look  into  my  face  with  an  almost 
tender  reproach.  I  felt  I  was  visibly  shrinking,  and 
that  the  upward  gaze  I  fastened  on  her  was  one  of 
pleading.  Unless  she  let  go  my  hand  and  ceased 
to  be  so  oppressively  gracious  I  would  diminish  to  a 
heap  upon  the  floor. 

"Never  mind,"  she  went  on,  "now  I  know  you 
ril  not  stand  outside  any  more." 

I  jerked  my  hand  away  and  made  a  flank  move- 
ment for  the  stairs.  Five  minutes  more  and  she 
would  be  coming  up  and  taking  supper  with  me. 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  41 

She  did  not  appear  to  notice  my  desire  for  flight, 
but  continued  talking  to  me  as  I  ascended. 

"We're  the  only  two  women  in  the  upper  part  of 
this  house.  Do  I  chaperon  you,  or  do  you  chaperon 
mer 

I  spoke  over  the  banisters  and  my  tone  was  cold. 

"Being  a  married  woman,  I  suppose  I'm  the 
natural  chaperon." 

The  coldness  glanced  off  her  imperturbable  good 
humor : 

"You  never  can  tell.  These  little  quiet  married 
women — " 

I  frowned.  The  changed  expression  stopped  her 
and  then  she  laughed. 

"Don't  be  offended.  You  must  never  mind  what  I 
say.   I'm  not  half  so  interesting  if  I  stop  and  think." 

I  looked  down  at  her  and  was  weak  enough  to 
smile.  Her  face  was  so  unlike  her  words,  so  serenely 
fine,  almost  noble. 

"That's  right,  smile,"  she  cried  gaily.  "You'll 
get  used  to  me  when  you  know  me  better.  And 
you're  going  to  do  that,  Mrs.  Drake,  for  I  warn  you 
now,  we'll  soon  be  friends." 

Before  I  could  answer  she  had  turned  and  run 
down  the  stairs  to  the  street. 


42  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  let  myself  into  the  sitting-room  and  took  off  my 
things.  I  have  neat  old-maidish  ways,  cultivated  by 
years  of  small  quarters.  Before  I  can  sit  with  an 
easy  conscience  I  have  to  put  away  wraps,  take  off 
shoes,  pull  down  blinds  and  light  lamps.  When  I 
had  done  this  I  sat  before  the  register  and  thought 
of  Miss  Harris. 

There  was  something  very  unusual  about  her — 
something  more  than  her  looks.  She  has  a  challeng- 
ing quality;  maybe  it's  magnetism,  but  whatever  it 
is  that's  what  makes  people  notice  her  and  speak  of 
her.  Nevertheless,  she  was  not  de  notre  monde — I 
apologize  for  the  phrase  which  has  always  seemed  to 
me  the  summit  of  snobbery,  but  I  can't  think  of  a 
better  one.  It  was  not  that  she  was  common — that 
didn't  fit  her  at  all — unsensitive  would  be  a  fairer 
word.  I  felt  that  very  strongly,  and  I  felt  that  it 
might  be  a  concomitant  of  a  sort  of  crude  power. 
She  didn't  notice  my  reluctance  at  all,  or  I  had  a 
fancy  that  she  might  have  noticed  it  and  didn't  care. 

I  was  sitting  thus  when  Mrs.  Bushey  came  bound- 
ing ebulliently  in.  Mrs.  Bushey  bounds  in  quite 
often,  after  physical  culture,  or  when  the  evenings 
in  the  other  house  pall.  She  wore  a  red  dress  under 


I 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  43 

a  long  fur-lined  coat  and  stopped  in  pained  amaze 
when  she  saw  me  crouched  over  the  register. 

"Cold!"  she  cried  aghast,  "don't  tell  me  you 
haven't  enough  heat?" 

It  was  just  what  I  intended  telling  her,  but  when 
I  saw  her  consternation  I  weakened. 

"It  is  a  little  chilly  this  evening,"  I  faltered, 
"but  perhaps — " 

Mrs.  Bushey  cut  me  short  by  falling  into  the 
Morris  chair  as  one  become  limp  from  an  unexpected 
blow. 

"What  am  I  to  do  ?"  she  wailed,  looking  up  at  the 
chandelier  as  though  she  expected  an  answer  to  drop 
on  her  from  the  globes.  "I've  just  got  four  tons  of 
the  best  coal  and  a  new  furnace  man.  I  pay  him 
double  what  any  one  else  on  the  block  pays — double 
— and  here  you  are  cold.'* 

I  felt  as  if  I  was  doing  Mrs.  Bushey  a  personal 
wrong — insulting  her  as  a  landlady  and  a  woman — 
and  exclaimed  earnestly,  quite  forgetting  the  night 
Roger  and  I  had  frozen  in  concert. 

"Only  this  evening,  Mrs.  Bushey,  I  assure  you." 

But  she  was  too  perturbed  to  listen : 

"And  I  try  so  hard — I  don't  make  a  cent  and 


44  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

don't  expect  to.  I  want  you  all  to  be  comfortable,  no 
matter  how  far  behind  I  get.  That's  my  way — ^but 
I've  always  been  a  fool.  Oh,  dear!"  She  let  her 
troubled  gaze  wander  over  the  room — "Isn't  that  a 
beautiful  mirror?  It  came  from  the  Trianon,  be- 
longed to  Marie  Antoinette.  I  took  it  out  of  my  room 
and  put  it  in  here  for  you.  What  shall  I  do  with  that 
furnace  man?" 

I  found  myself  telling  her  that  an  arctic  tempera- 
ture was  exactly  to  my  taste,  and  making  a  mental 
resolution  that  next  time  Roger  came  he  could  keep 
on  his  overcoat,  and  after  all,  spring  was  only  six 
months  off. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Bushey  firmly,  "I'll  have  it  right 
if  I  go  to  the  poorhouse,  and  that's  where  I'm 
headed.  I  had  a  carpenter's  bill  to-day — ^twenty-six 
dollars  and  fourteen  cents — and  I've  only  eleven  in 
the  bank.  It  was  for  your  floor" — she  looked  over 
it — "I  really  didn't  need  to  have  it  fixed,  it's  not 
customary,  but  I  was  determined  I'd  give  you  a 
good  floor  no  matter  what  it  cost." 

I  was  just  about  suggesting  that  the  car- 
penter's bill  be  added  to  my  next  month's  rent  when 
she  brightened  up  and  said  an  Italian  count  had 
taken  the  front  room  on  the  floor  above. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  45 

"Count  Mario  Delcati,  one  of  the  very  finest 
families  of  Milan.  A  charming  young  fellow, 
charming,  with  those  gallant  foreign  manners.  He's 
coming  here  to  learn  business,  American  methods. 
I'm  asking  him  nothing — a  young  man  in  a  strange 
country.  How  could  I?  And  though  his  family's 
wealthy  they're  giving  him  a  mere  pittance  to  live 
on.  Of  course  I  won't  make  anything  by  it,  I  don't 
expect  to.  His  room's  got  hardly  any  chairs  in  it, 
and  I  can't  buy  any  new  ones  with  that  carpenter's 
bill  hanging  over  me."  She  smoothed  the  arm  of  the 
Morris  chair  and  then  looked  at  the  floor.  "It's 
really  made  your  floor  look  like  parquet." 

I  agreed,  though  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before. 

"You  have  a  good  many  chairs  in  this  room,"  she 
went  on,  "more  than  usually  go  in  a  furnished  apart- 
ment, even  in  the  most  expensive  hotels." 

I  had  two  chairs  and  a  sofa.  Mrs.  Bushey  rose 
and  drew  together  her  fur-lined  coat. 

"It's  horrible  to  think  of  that  boy  with  only  one 
chair,"  she  murmured,  "far  from  his  home,  too.  Of 
course  I'd  give  him  any  I  had,  but  mine  are  all  g^ne. 
I'd  give  the  teeth  out  of  my  head  if  anybody  wanted 
them.  It's  not  in  my  nature  to  keep  things  for  myself 
when  other  people  ought  to  have  them." 


46  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  gave  up  the  Morris  chair.  Mrs.  Bushey  was 
gushingly  grateful. 

"I'll  tell  him  it  was  yours  and  how  willingly  you 
gave  it  up,"  she  said,  moving  toward  the  door.  Then 
she  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  the  center-table 
lamp.  "He's  a  great  reader,  he  tells  me — French 
fiction.  He  ought  to  have  a  lamp  and  there's  not  one 
to  spare  in  either  house." 

She  looked  encouragingly  at  me.  I  wanted  the 
lamp. 

"Can't  he  read  by  the  gas?"  I  pleaded. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bushey,  with  a  reproving 
look,  "can  you  read  by  the  gas?" 

Conquered  by  her  irrefutable  argument,  I  sur- 
rendered the  lamp.    She  was  again  grateful. 

"It's  so  agreeable,  dealing  with  the  right  sort  of 
people,"  she  said,  fastening  the  last  button  of  her 
coat.  "All  the  others  in  the  house  are  so  selfish — 
wouldn't  give  up  anything.  But  one  doesn't  have  to 
ask  you.  You  off'er  it  at  once." 

The  count  arrived  yesterday  afternoon,  and  we 
are  now  fast  friends.  Our  meeting  fell  out  thus : — 
I  was  reading  and  heard  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs,  footsteps  going  up  and  down,  prowling  rest- 
less footsteps  to  which  I  paid  no  attention,  as  they 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  47 

go  on  most  of  the  time.  Presently  there  was  a  knock 
at  my  door  and  that,  too,  was  a  common  happening, 
as  most  things  and  people  destined  for  our  house  find 
refuge  at  my  portal — intending  lodgers  for  Mrs. 
Bushey,  the  seedy  man  who  has  a  bill  for  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton, the  laundress  with  Mr.  Hazard's  wash,  the  artist 
who  is  searching  for  Miss  Bliss  and  has  forgotten 
the  address,  the  telegraph  boy  with  everybody's  tele- 
grams, the  postman  with  the  special  deliveries,  and 
Miss  Harris*  purchases  at  the  department  stores. 

I  called,  "Come  in,"  and  the  door  opened,  display- 
ing a  thin,  brown,  dapper  young  man  in  a  fur-lined 
overcoat  and  a  silk  hat  worn  back  from  his  forehead. 
He  had  a  smooth  dark  skin,  a  dash  of  hair  on  his 
upper  lip,  and  eyes  so  black  in  the  pupil  and  white  in 
the  eyeball  that  they  looked  as  if  made  of  enamcL 

At  the  sight  of  a  lady  the  young  man  took  off  his 
hat  and  made  a  deep  bow.  When  he  rose  from  this 
obeisance  he  was  smiling  pleasantly. 

"I  am  Count  Delcati,"  he  said. 

"How  do  you  do?"  I  responded,  rising. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  count  in  careful  English 
with  an  accent.  "I  come  to  live  here." 

"It's  a  very  nice  place,"  I  answered. 

"That  is  why  I  took  the  room,"  said  the  count. 


48  THE   BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

"But  now  I  am  here  I  can't  get  into  it  or  find  any 
one  who  will  open  the  door." 

He  was  locked  out  Mrs.  Bushey  was  absent  im- 
parting the  mysteries  of  physical  culture  and  Emma, 
the  maid,  was  not  to  be  found.  In  the  lower  hall  was 
a  pile  of  luggage  that  might  have  belonged  to  an 
actress  touring  in  repertoire,  and  the  count  could 
think  of  nothing  better  to  do  than  sit  on  it  till  some 
one  came  by  and  rescued  him.  Not  at  all  sure  that 
he  might  not  be  a  novel  form  of  burglar,  I  invited 
him  into  my  parlor  and  set  him  by  the  register  to 
thaw  out.  He  accepted  my  hospitality  serenely, 
pushing  an  armchair  to  the  heat,  and  asking  me  if  I 
objected  to  his  wrapping  himself  in  my  Navajo 
blanket 

"How  fortunate  that  I  knocked  at  your  door,*'  he 
said,  arranging  the  blanket  "Otherwise  I  should 
surely  be  froze." 

I  had  an  engagement  at  the  dentist's  and  disap- 
peared to  put  on  my  thingp.  When  I  came  back  he 
rose  quickly  to  his  feet,  the  blanket  draped  around 
his  shoulders. 

"I  am  going  out,"  I  said.  "I  have  to — it's  the 
dentist's." 

"Poor  lady,"  he  murmured  politely. 


THE    BOOK   OF   EVELYN  49 

"But — but  you,"  I  stammered;  "what  will  you 
do  while  I'm  gone?" 

HoldiDg  the  blanket  together  with  one  hand  he 
made  a  sweeping  gesture  round  the  room  with  the 
other. 

"Stay  here  till  you  come  back." 

I  thought  of  Roger  or  Betty  chancing  to  drop  in 
and  looked  on  the  ground  hesitant  There  was  a 
slight  pame;  I  rmiied  my  eyes.  The  count,  clasping 
the  two  ends  of  the  blanket  together  over  his  breast, 
was  regarding  me  with  mild  attention. 

"But  if  any  of  my  friends  come  in  to  sec  me?" 

"I  will  receive  them — varri  nicely,"  said  the 
count 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  a  solemn  second  and 
then  burst  out  laughing. 

"All  right,"  I  said.  "There  are  the  books  and 
magazines,  there  are  the  cigarettes,  the  matches  are 
in  that  Japanese  box  and  that  cut  glass  bowl  is  full 
of  chocolates." 

I  left  him  and  was  gone  till  dark.  At  six  I  came 
back  to  find  the  room  illuminated  by  every  gas-jet 
and  lamp  and  the  count  still  there.  He  had  quite  a 
glad  welcoming  air,  as  if  I  might  have  been  hif 
mother  or  his  maiden  aunt 


so  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"You  here  still,"  I  cried  in  the  open  doorway. 

He  gave  one  of  his  deep  deliberate  bows. 

"I  have  been  varri  comfortable  and  warm,"  he 
designated  the  center  table  with  an  expressive  ges- 
ture, '*I  read  magazines,  I  eat  candy  and  I  smoke — 
yes" — he  looked  with  a  proud  air  into  the  empty 
box — *'yes,  I  smoke  all  the  cigarettes." 

Then  we  went  into  the  next  house  to  find  Mrs. 
Bushey. 

My  supper — eggs  and  cocoa — is  cooked  by  me  in 
the  kitchenette.  It  is  eaten  in  the  dining-room  or 
bedroom  (the  name  of  the  apartment  varies  with  the 
hour  of  the  day)  on  one  end  of  the  table.  The  effect 
is  prim  and  spinsterly — a  tray  cloth  set  with  china 
and  silver,  a  student  lamp,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
table,  a  small  bunch  of  flowers.  People  send  them 
sometimes  and  in  the  gaps  when  no  one  "bunches" 
me  I  buy  them.  To  keep  human  every  woman  should 
have  one  extravagance. 

I  was  breaking  the  first  egg  when  a  knock  came 
on  the  door,  and  Miss  Harris  entered.  She  came  in 
quickly,  the  gray  fur  coat  over  her  arm,  a  bare  hand 
clasping  gloves,  purse  and  a  theater  bag,  all  of  which 
she  cast  on  the  divan-bed,  revealing  herself  gowned 
in  black  velvet. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  51 

"Good  evening,  dearie/'  she  said,  patting  at  her 
skirt  with  a  preoccupied  air,  "would  you  mind  doing 
me  a  service?" 

I  rose  uneasily  expectant  I  should  not  have  been 
surprised  if  she  had  asked  for  anything  from  one  of 
my  eggs  to  all  my  savings. 

"Don't  look  so  frightened/'  she  said,  and  wheeled 
round  disclosing  the  back  of  her  dress  gaping  over 
lingerie  effects :   "Hook  me  up,  that's  all." 

As  I  began  the  service  Miss  Flarris  stood  grace- 
fully at  ease,  throwing  remarks  over  her  shoulder: 

"It's  a  great  blessing  having  you  here,  not  alone 
for  your  sweet  little  self,"  she  turned  her  head  and 
tried  to  look  at  me,  pulling  the  dress  out  of  my  hands, 
"but  because  before  you  came  I  had  such  a  tragic 
time  with  the  three  middle  hooks," 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Went  unhooked  sometimes  and  at  others  walked 
up  and  down  the  stairs  hoping  I'd  find  one  of  the 
inhabitants  here,  or  a  tramp,  or  the  postman.  He's 
done  it  twice  for  me — a  very  obliging  man." 

I  did  not  approve,  but  did  not  like  to  say  so. 

"There's  an  eye  gone  here/' 

"Only  one/'  said  Miss  Harris  in  a  tone  of  surprise, 
"I  thought  there  were  two." 


52  THE    BOOK   OF.    EVELYN 

"Shall  I  pin  it?" 

*' Please  don't.  How  could  I  get  out  a  pin  by  my- 
self, and  I  won't  wake  you  up  at  midnight." 

"But  it  gaps  and  shows  your  neck." 

"Then  if  the  play's  dull,  the  person  behind  me  will 
have  something  interesting  to  look  at." 

"But  really,  Miss  Harris — " 

"My  dear,  good,  kind  friend,  don't  be  so  proper, 
or  do  be  proper  about  yourself  if  it's  your  nature  and 
you  can't  help  it,  but  don't  be  about  me.  When  I'm 
on  the  stage  I'll  have  to  show  much  more  than  my 
neck,  so  I  may  as  well  get  used  to  it." 

"Miss  Harris!"  I  said  in  a  firm  cold  tone,  and 
stopped  the  hooking. 

I  caught  the  gleam  of  a  liumorous  gray  eye. 

"Mrs.  Drake!"  She  whirled  round  and  put  her 
hands  on  my  shoulders  and  looked  into  my  face  with 
a  sweetness  that  was  quite  bewitching.  "You  dear 
little  mouse,  don't  you  know  you're  one  kind  and 
I'm  another.  Both  are  nice  kinds  in  their  wry,  so 
don't  let's  try  to  mix  them  up." 

There  is  something  disarmingly  winning  about 
this  woman.  I  think  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
have  met  a  siren.     I  pulled  my  shoulders  from  the 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  53 

grasp  of  her  hands,  as  I  felt  myself  pulling  my  spirit 
from  the  grasp  of  her  attraction. 

"I've  not  finished  your  dress,"  I  said. 

She  turned  her  back  to  me  and  gave  a  sigh. 

"Go  on,  Cornelia,  Mother  of  the  Gracchi/'  she 
said,  and  then  added :  "Are  you  the  mother  of  any- 
thing?" 

"No,"  I  answered. 

"Too  bad,"  she  murmured,  "you  ought  to  be." 

I  didn't  reply  to  that  In  the  moment  of  silence 
the  sound  of  feet  on  the  stairs  was  audible.  They 
came  up  the  passage  and  began  the  ascent  of  the 
next  flight   Miss  Harris  started. 

"That's  my  man,  I  guess,"  she  said  quickly  and 
tore  herself  from  my  hands. 

She  ran  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open.  I  could 
see  the  man's  feet  and  legs  half-way  up  the  stairs. 

"Jack,"  she  cried  in  a  joyous  voice,  "I'm  here,  in 
Mrs.  Drake's  room.  Come  down;"  then  to  me:  "It's 
Mr.  Masters.    I'm  going  to  the  theater  with  him." 

The  feet  descended  and  Mr.  Masters  came  into 
view.  He  was  the  man  Roger  and  I  had  seen  in  the 
passage. 

He  took  Miss  Harris'  proffered  hand,  then  sent  a 


54  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

look  at  me  and  my  room  that  contained  a  subtle  sug- 
gestion of  rudeness,  of  bold  and  insolent  intrusion. 
Before  she  could  introduce  us  he  bowed  and  said 
easily : 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Drake.  Saw  you  the  other 
night  in  the  hall." 

I  inclined  my  head  very  slightly.  His  manner  and 
voice  increased  my  original  dislike.  I  felt  that  I 
could  not  talk  to  him  and  turned  to  Miss  Harris. 
Something  in  her  face  struck  me  unpleasantly.  Her 
look  was  bent  upon  him  and  her  air  of  beaming  upon 
the  world  in  general  was  intensified  by  a  sort  of  spe- 
cial beam — an  enveloping,  deeply  glowing  beam, 
such  as  mothers  direct  upon  beloved  children  and 
women  upon  their  lovers. 

The  door  was  open  and  Mr.  Masters  leaned  upon 
the  door-post. 

"Nice  little  place  you've  got  here,"  he  said.  "Bet- 
ter than  yours,  Lizzie." 

Miss  Harris  withdrew  her  glance  from  him,  it 
seemed  to  me  with  an  effort,  as  if  it  clung  upon  him 
and  she  had  to  pluck  it  away. 

"Finish  me,"  she  said,  turning  abruptly  to  me,  "I 
must  go." 

All  the  especial  glow  for  me  was  gone.   Her  eyes 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  55 

lit  on  mine  vacant  and  unseeing.  I  suddenly  seemed 
to  have  receded  to  a  point  on  her  horizon  where  I 
had  no  more  personality  than  a  dot  on  a  map.  I 
was  not  even  a  servant,  simply  a  pair  of  hands  that 
prepared  her  for  her  flight  into  the  night  with  the 
vulgar  and  repulsive  man.  Tliis  made  me  hesitate, 
also  I  didn't  want  to  go  on  wMth  the  hooking  while 
Mr.  Masters  leaned  against  the  door-post  with  that 
impudently  familiar  air. 

"If  Mr.  Masters  will  go  into  the  passage/'  I  said. 

He  laughed  good-humorcdiy,  but  did  not  budge. 
Miss  Harris  made  a  movement  that  might  easily 
have  degenerated  into  an  angry  stamp. 

**0h,  don't  be  such  an  old  maid/'  she  said  petu- 
lantly.   "Do  the  collar  and  let  me  go." 

I  couldn't  refuse,  but  I  went  on  with  the  hooking 
with  a  flushed  face.  What  a  fool  I  had  been  not  to 
take  Betty's  advice.  Charming  as  she  could  be  when 
she  wanted,  Miss  Harris  was  evidently  not  a  per- 
son whose  manners  remained  at  an  even  level. 

"Have  you  heard  Miss  Harris  sing?"  asked  Mr. 
Masters. 

"Yes,  through  the  register." 

"That's  a  bad  conductor.  You  must  come  up  and 
hear  her  in  her  own  rooms  some  evening." 


$6  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

"If  Miss  Harris  wants  me  to." 

"Mrs.  Drake  will  some  day  hear  me  sing  in  the 
Metropolitan,"  said  the  lady. 

"Some  day,"  responded  Mr.  Masters. 

There  was  something  in  his  enunciation  of  this 
single  word,  so  acid,  so  impregnated  with  a  sneering 
quality  that  I  stopped  my  work  and  cast  a  surprised 
glance  at  him. 

He  met  it  with  a  slight  smile. 

"Our  friend  Lizzie  here,"  he  said,  "has  dreams — 
what  I'm  beginning  to  think  are  pipe  dreams." 

"Jack,"  she  cried  with  a  sudden  note  of  pleading, 
"you  know  that's  not  true.  You  knott/  I'll  some  day 
sing  there." 

"I  know  you  want  to,"  he  replied,  then  with  the 
air  of  ignoring  her  and  addressing  himself  ex- 
clusively to  me:  "Miss  Harris  has  a  good  voice,  I 
might  say  a  fine  voice.  But — all  here,"  he  spread  his 
fingers  fan-wise  across  his  forehead  and  tapped  on 
that  broad  expanse,  "the  soul,  the  thing  that  sees 
and  feels — absent,  nil,"  he  fluttered  the  spread  fin- 
gers in  the  air. 

I  was  astounded  at  his  cruel  frankness — all  the 
more  so  as  I  saw  it  had  completely  dashed  her  spirits. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  57 

"Rubbish,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  I  answered 
hotly,  entirely  forgetting  that  I  was  angry  with  her. 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  returned  coolly,  "I've  told  her  so 
often.  A  great  presence,  a  fine  mechanism,"  he  swept 
her  with  a  gesture  as  if  she  had  been  a  statue,  "but 
the  big  thing,  the  heart  of  it  all — not  there.  No 
imagination,  no  temperament,  just  a  well  regulated, 
handsomely  decorated  musical  box.  Isn't  that  so, 
Lizzie?" 

He  turned  from  me  and  directly  addressed  her, 
his  eyes  narrowed,  his  face  showing  a  faint  sar- 
donic amusement  I  wondered  what  she  was  going 
to  say — whether  she  would  fly  at  him,  or  whether, 
like  the  woman  I  knew,  she  would  hide  her  mortifi- 
cation and  refuse  him  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  how 
he  hurt  her. 

She  did  neither.  Moving  to  the  divan,  she  picked 
up  her  coat,  showing  me  a  face  as  dejected  as  that 
of  a  disappointed  child.  His  words  seemed  to  have 
stricken  all  the  buoyancy  out  of  her  and  she 
shrugged  herself  into  the  coat  with  slow  fatigued 
movements.  Bending  to  pick  up  her  gloves  and 
glasses  she  said  somberly : 

"I'll  get  a  soul  some  day." 


58  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

**We  hope  so,"  he  returned. 

"He  doesn't  know  anything  about  it,"  I  said  in 
an  effort  to  console. 

"Oh,  doesn't  he!"  she  answered  bitterly.  "It's  his 
business." 

"I'm  a  speculator  in  voices,"  he  said,  "and  our 
handsome  friend  Lizzie  here  has  been  an  investment 
that,  I'm  beginning  to  fear,  won't  pay  any  divi- 
dends." 

He  laughed  and  looked  at  her  with  what  seemed 
to  me  a  quite  satanic  pleasure  in  his  tormenting. 

I  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  bewildered  by  the 
strange  pair.  Miss  Harris  had  gathered  up  her  be- 
longings and  moved  to  the  door  with  a  spiritless 
step. 

"Good  night,"  she  said,  glancing  at  me  as  if  I  was 
a  chair  that  had  temporarily  supported  her  weight  in 
a  trying  moment 

"Good  night,"  said  Mr.  Masters  cheerfully. 
"Some  day  go  up  and  hear  Lizzie  sing  and  see  if 
you  can  find  the  soul  in  the  sound." 

He  gave  a  wave  with  his  hat  and  followed  her 
down  the  hall. 

I  shut  the  door,  and  am  not  ashamed  to  confess, 
leaned  upon  it  listening.    I  wanted  to  hear  her  at- 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  59 

tack  him  on  the  lower  flight    But  their  footsteps 
died  away  in  silence. 

I  cleared  away  my  supper,  sunk  in  deep  reflections. 
What  an  extraordinary  woman !  One  moment  treat- 
ing you  like  her  bosom  friend,  the  next  oblivious  of 
your  existence,  and  most  extraordinary  of  all,  meek- 
ly enduring  the  taunts  of  that  unspeakable  man.  I 
couldn't  account  for  it  in  any  way  except  that  she 
must  be  going  to  marry  him — and  that  was  a  hateful 
thought  For  if  she  was  rude,  and  had  the  manners 
of  a  spoiled  child,  there  was  something  about  her 
that  drew  you  close,  as  if  her  hands  had  hold  of 
yours  and  were  pulling  you  softly  and  surely  into 
her  embrace. 


ROGER  and  I  went  out  to  dinner  last  night, 
_  down-town  to  our  favorite  haunt  in  Univer- 
sity Place. 

I  put  on  my  best,  a  brown  velveteen  princesse 
gown  (one  of  Betty's  made  over),  my  brown  hat 
with  the  gold  rose  and  my  amber  beads.  I  even 
powdered  my  nose,  which  I  was  brought  up  to  think 
an  act  of  depravity  only  perpetrated  by  the  lost  and 
fallen.  When  I  am  dressed  up  I  really  do  not  look 
thirty-three.  But  I'll  have  to  buy  two  little  rats  to 
puff  out  my  hair  at  the  sides.  It's  too  fiat  under  that 
hat.  Roger  was  pleased  when  he  saw  me — that's 
why  I  did  it.  What's  the  fun  of  dressing  for  your- 
self? Some  one  must  look  at  you  admiringly  and  say, 
well,  whatever  it's  his  nature  to  say.  I  suppose  Mr. 
Masters  would  exclaim,  "Gee,  you're  a  peach!" 
Roger  said,  "I  like  you  in  brown." 

I  love  going  down  Fifth  Avenue  in  the  dark  of  a 
winter  evening.  The  traffic  of  business  is  over. 
Motors  and  carriages  go  spinning  by,  carrying  peo- 

6a 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  6i 

pie  to  dinners.  The  big  glistening  street  is  like  an 
artery  with  the  joyous  blood  of  the  city  racing 
through  it,  coursing  along  with  the  throb,  throb, 
throb  of  a  deathless  vitality.  And  the  lights — the 
wonderful,  glowing,  golden  lights!  Two  long  lines 
of  them  on  either  side  that  go  undulating  away  into 
the  distance,  and  broken  ones  that  flash  by  in  a  yel- 
low streak,  and  round  glaring  ones  like  the  alarmed 
eyes  of  animals  rushing  toward  you  in  terror. 

And  I  love  the  noise,  the  near-by  rumble  and  clat- 
ter, and  outside  it  the  low  continuous  roar,  the  voice 
of  the  city  booming  out  into  the  quiet  of  the  fields 
and  up  into  the  silence  of  the  skies.  *  One  great,  un- 
broken sound  made  up  of  millions  of  little  separate 
sounds,  one  great  consolidated  life  made  up  of  mil- 
lions of  little  separate  life,  each  of  such  vital  im- 
portance to  the  one  who's  living  it 

We  had  lots  to  talk  about,  Roger  and  I.  We 
always  do.  We  might  be  wrecked  on  a  desert  island 
and  go  on  talking  for  ten  years  without  coming  to 
the  end.  There  are  endless  subjects — the  books  we 
read,  the  plays  we  sec,  pictures  over  which  we  argue, 
music  of  which  I  know  nothing,  and  people,  the 
most  absorbing  of  all,  probably  because  gossiping  is 
a  reprehensible  practise.   There  is  nothing  I  enjoy 


62  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

more.  If  I  hadn't  been  so  well  brought  up  I  would 
be  like  the  women  in  the  first  act  of  The  School 
for  Scandal.  Sometimes  we  make  little  retro- 
spective journeys  into  the  past.  But  we  do  this 
cautiously.  There  are  five  years  we  neither  of  us 
care  to  touch  on,  so  we  talk  forward  by  preference. 

Of  course  I  had  to  tell  Roger  of  Miss  Harris  and 
Mr.  Masters.    It  lasted  through  two  courses. 

"What  a  dog!"  was  Roger's  comment 

"Roger,"  I  said  earnestly,  "do  you  think  she  could 
be  in  love  with  such  a  man?" 

Roger  shrugged. 

"How  can  /  tell?" 

"But  could  any  woman — any  possible  kind  of  a 
woman  ?  And  she's  a  very  possible  kind.  Something 
comes  from  her  and  finds  your  heart  and  draws  it 
right  out  toward  her.    She  couldn't." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  understand  this  enigmatical 
lady." 

"Maybe  I  don't  understand  everything  about 
her,  I've  only  known  her  a  few  days.  But  I  can 
feel — it's  an  instinct — that  underneath  where  the 
real  things  are  she's  true  and  sound." 

I  can  see  into  Roger  more  clearly  than  he  knows, 
and  I  saw  that  he  wasn't  at  all  interested  in  Miss 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  63 

Harris.  He  looked  round  the  room  and  said  in- 
differently : 

"Why  does  she  have  a  cad  like  that  hanging 
about?" 

"Perhaps  underneath  there's  something  fine  in 
him." 

"Very  far  underneath,  buried  so  deep  nobody  but 
Miss  Harris  can  find  it" 

"Roger,  don't  be  disagreeable.  You've  never  seen 
cither  of  them." 

"Evie,  dear,  your  descriptions  are  very  graphic 
Do  you  know  what  I  think?"  He  looked  at  me, 
smiling  a  little,  but  with  grave  eyes.  "I  think  that 
you're  seeing  Miss  Harris  through  yourself.  You're 
putting  your  brain  into  her  head  and  your  heart 
into  her  body  and  then  trying  to  explain  her.  Thaf  s 
what's  making  her  such  a  puzzle." 

The  waiter  here  produced  a  casserole  with  two 
squabs  in  it  and  presented  it  to  Roger's  gaze  as  if 
it  were  a  gift  he  was  humbly  offering.  Roger  looked 
at  it  and  waved  him  away  as  if  the  gift  was  not 
satisfactory. 

"They  look  lovely,"  I  called,  and  Roger  smiled. 

The  squabs  occupied  him  and  my  thoughts  occu- 
pied me  finally  to  find  expression  in  a  question : 


64  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"Roger,  what  is  a  gentleman  ?" 

He  looked  surprised. 

"A  gentleman  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Just  what  I  say — what  is  it?" 

"You  know." 

"No,  I  don't.  That's  just  the  point.  There  are  lots 
of  things  that  everybody — ^young  people  and  fools — 
seem  to  understand  and  I  don't.  One  is  the  theory 
of  vicarious  atonement,  one  is  why  girls  are  edu- 
cated to  know  nothing  about  marriage  and  children, 
which  are  the  things  that  most  concern  them,  and 
one  is  what  makes  a  man  a  gentleman." 

Roger  considered : 

"Let's  see — at  a  blow.  A  gentleman  is  a  man  who 
observes  certain  rules  of  behavior  founded  on  con- 
sideration for  the  welfare  and  comfort  of  others." 

"It  sounds  like  the  polite  letter  writer.  Can  a 
gentleman  tell  lies?" 

"To  benefit  himself,  no.    To  shield  others,  yes." 

"If  he  was  noble  inside — in  his  character — and 
uncouth  outside,  would  he  be  a  gentleman?'* 

"What  do  you  mean  by  uncouth?" 

"Well — wore  a  watch  chain  made  of  nuggets  like 
a  man  I  met  in  Dresden,  and  ate  peas  with  his 
knife?" 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVLLi^i  6$ 

"No." 

"Then,  if  he  had  beautiful  manners  and  a  bad 
heart,  would  he  be  one?" 

"If  his  bad  heart  didn't  obtrude  too  much  on  his 
dealings  with  society,  he  might." 

"Is  it  all  a  question  of  clothes  and  manners?" 

"No." 

"You've  got  to  have  besides  the  clothes  and  man- 
ners an  inner  instinct?" 

"That's  it." 

I  mused  for  a  moment,  then,  looking  up,  caught 
Roger's  eye  fixed  on  me  with  a  quizzical  gleam. 

"Why  this  catechism?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Masters." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Roger  crossly,  his  gleam 
suddenly  extinguished.  "Can't  you  get  away  from 
the  riff-raff  in  that  house?  I  wish  you'd  never  gone 
there." 

"No,  I  can't  I  was  wondering  if  Mr.  Masters, 
under  that  awful  exterior  had  a  fine  nature,  could 
he  possibly  be  a  gentleman  ?" 

"Evie,"  said  Roger,  putting  down  his  knife  and 
fork  and  looking  serious,  "if  under  that  awful  ex- 
terior Mr.  Masters  had  the  noble  qualities  of  George 
Washington,  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  the  Chevalier 


66  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Bayard  he  could  no  more  be  a  gentleman  than  I 
could  be  king  of  Spain." 

"I  was  afraid  that's  what  you'd  say.'*  I  sighed 
and  returned  to  my  squab. 

I  said  no  more  about  it,  but  when  I  got  home  my 
thoughts  went  back  to  it.  I  hated  to  think  of  Lizzie 
Harris  in  the  company  of  such  a  man.  If  she  was 
lacking  in  judgment  and  worldly  knowledge  some 
one  ought  to  supply  them  for  her.  She  was  alone 
and  a  stranger.  Mrs.  Bushey  had  told  me  she  came 
from  California,  and  from  what  I'd  heard,  Califor- 
nia's golden  lads  and  lassies  scorned  the  craven 
deference  to  public  opinion  that  obtains  in  the  effete 
East  But  she  was  in  the  effete  East,  and  she  must 
conform  to  its  standards.  She  probably  had  never 
given  them  a  thought  and  had  no  initiated  guide  to 
draw  them  to  her  attention.  Whatever  Betty  might 
say,  I  was  free  to  be  friendly  with  whomever  I 
pleased.  That  was  one  of  the  few  advantages  of 
being  a  widow,  d^racincie  by  four  years  in  Europe. 
By  the  morning  I  had  decided  to  put  my  age  and 
experience  at  her  service  and  this  afternoon  went 
up-stairs  to  begin  doing  it. 

She  was  in  her  front  room,  sitting  at  a  desk  writ* 
ing.    A  kimono  of  a  bright  blue  crepe  enwrapped 


THE   BOOK   OF    EVELYN  67 

her,  her  dark  hair,  cloudy  about  the  brows,  was 
knotted  loosely  on  the  nape  of  her  neck.  She  rote 
impulsively  when  she  saw  me,  kissed  me  as  if  I  was 
her  dearest  friend,  then  motioned  me  to  the  sofa, 
and  went  back  to  her  place  at  the  desk. 

The  room  is  like  mine,  only  being  in  the  mansard, 
the  windows  are  smaller  and  have  shelf-like  sills. 
It  was  an  odd  place,  handsome  things  and  tawdry 
things  side  by  side.  In  one  comer  stood  a  really 
beautiful  cabinet  of  red  Japanese  lacquer,  and  be- 
side it  a  three-legged  wooden  stool,  painted  white 
with  bows  of  ribbon  tied  round  each  leg  as  if  it  was 
some  kind  of  deformed  household  pet.  Portions  of 
Miss  Harris'  wardrobe  lay  over  the  chairs,  and  the 
big  black  hat  crowned  the  piano  tool.  On  the  win- 
dow-sill, drooping  and  withered,  stood  a  clump  of 
cyclamen  in  a  pot,  wrapped  in  crimped  green  paper. 
Beside  it  was  a  plate  of  crackers  and  a  paper  bag, 
from  whose  yawning  mouth  a  stream  of  oranges  had 
run  out,  lodging  in  comers.  The  upright  piano,  its 
top  covered  with  stacked  music,  the  wintry  light 
gleaming  on  its  keys,  stood  across  a  rear  angle  of 
the  room  and  gave  the  unkempt  place  an  air  of  pur- 
pose, lent  it  a  meaning. 

It  must  be  confessed  Mifs  Harris  did  not  look  at 


68  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

if  she  needed  assistance  or  advice.  She  was  serene 
and  debonair  and  the  blue  kimono  was  extravagantly 
becoming.  I  sat  down  upon  the  sofa  against  a  pile 
of  cushions.  The  bottom  ones  were  of  an  astonishing 
hardness  which  obtruded  through  the  softness  of 
the  top  ones  as  if  an  eider-down  quilt  had  been 
spread  over  a  pile  of  bricks.  I  tried  to  look  as  if  I 
hadn't  felt  the  bricks  and  smiled  at  Miss  Harris. 

"See  what  Tve  been  doing/*  she  said,  and  handed 
me  a  sheet  of  note  paper  upon  which  were  inscribed 
a  list  of  names. 

I  looked  over  them  and  they  recalled  to  my  mind 
the  heroines  of  G.  P.  R.  James'  novels  of  which,  in 
my  teens,  I  had  been  fond. 

"Suggestions  for  my  stage  name,"  she  explained. 
"How  does  number  three  strike  you?" 

Number  three  was  Leonora  Bronzino. 

"That's  an  Italian  painter,"  I  answered. 

"Is  it?  What  a  bother.   Would  he  make  a  fuss?" 

"He's  been  dead  for  several  hundred  years." 

"Then  he  doesn't  matter.  What  do  you  think  of 
number  five?" 

I  looked  up  number  five — Liza  Bonaventura. 

I  murmured  it,  testing  the  sound.    Miss  Harris 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  69 

eyed  me  with  attention,  rapping  gently  on  her  teeth 
with  the  pen  handle. 

"Is  it  too  long?" 

I  wasn't  sure. 

"Of  course  when  I  got  to  be  famous  it  would  be 
just  Bonaventura.  And  that's  a  good  word — might 
bring  me  luck." 

"Why  don't  you  use  your  own  name?" 

She  laughed,  throwing  back  her  head  so  that  I 
could  see  the  inside  of  her  mouth,  pink  and  fresh  like 
a  healthy  kitten's. 

"Lizzie  Harris  on  a  program — never!"  Then 
suddenly  serious,  "I  like  Bonaventura — 'Did  you 
hear  Bonaventura  last  night  in  TaHnhduser* — strong 
accent  on  the  hear.  'How  superb  Bonaventura  was 
in  Carmen.'  It  has  a  good  ring.  And  then  I've  got 
a  little  dribble  of  Spanish  blood  in  me." 

"You  look  Spanish." 

She  nodded : 

"My  grandmother.  She  was  a  Spanish  Calif or« 
nian — Estradilla.  They  owned  the  Santa  Catcrina 
Rancho  near  San  Luis  Obispo.  My  grandfather  was 
a  sailor  on  a  Yankee  ship  that  used  to  touch  there 
and  get  hides  and  tallow.   He  deserted  and  married 


70  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

her  and  got  with  her  a  strip  of  the  rancho  as  big  as 
Long  Island.  And  their  illustrious  descendant  lives 
in  two  rooms  and  a  kitchenette." 

She  laughed  and  jumped  up. 

"I'm  going  to  sing  for  you  and  you'll  see  if  Bona- 
ventura  doesn't  go  well  with  my  style." 

She  swept  the  hat  off  the  piano  stool  and  seated 
herself.  The  walls  of  the  room  are  covered  with  an 
umber  brown  burlap  which  made  an  admirable  back- 
ground for  her  long  body  clothed  in  the  rich  sinuous 
crepe  and  her  pale  profile  uplifted  on  an  out- 
stretched white  neck. 

"I'll  sing  you  something  that  I  do  rather  well — 
Elizabeth's  going  to  be  one  of  my  great  roles,"  she 
said,  and  struck  a  chord. 

It  was  Dich  Theure  Halle  and  she  sang  it  badly. 
I  don't  mean  that  she  flatted  or  breathed  in  the 
wrong  place,  but  she  sang  without  feeling,  or  even 
intelligence.  Also  her  voice  was  not  especially  re- 
markable. It  was  full,  but  coarse  and  hard,  and 
rolled  round  in  the  small  room  with  the  effect  of 
some  large  unwieldly  thing,  trying  to  find  its  way 
out.  What  struck  me  as  most  curious  was  that  the 
rich  and  noble  quality  one  felt  in  her  was  completely 
lacking  in  her  performance.    It  was  commonplace, 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  ft 

undistinguished.  No  matter  how  objectionable  Mr. 
Masters  might  be  I  could  not  but  feel  he  was  right. 

When  she  had  finished  she  wheeled  suddenly 
round  on  the  stool  and  said  quickly : 

"Let  me  see  your  face," 

"It'fr-it's  a  fine  voice."  I  faltered,  "so  full  and— 
cr— rich." 

She  paid  no  attention  to  my  words,  but  sent  a 
piercing  look  over  my  embarrassed  countenance. 
Her  own  clouded  and  she  drew  back  as  if  I  had 
hurt  her. 

"You  don't  like  it,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Why  do  you  say  that — what  nonsense.  Haven't 
I  just  said — " 

"Oh,  keep  quiet,"  she  interrupted  roughly,  and 
giving  the  piano  stool  a  jerk  was  twirled  away  from 
me  into  a  profile  position.  She  looked  so  gloomy 
that  I  was  afraid  to  speak. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  I  felt 
exceedingly  uncomfortable  and  she  sat  with  her  head 
bowed,  staring  at  the  floor.  Then  she  gave  a  deep 
sigh  and  murmured. 

"It's  so  crushing — you  all  look  the  same." 

"Who?" 

"Everybody  who  knows.    And  I've  worked  so 


73  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

hard  and  I'm  eaten  up/'  she  struck  her  breast  with 
her  clenched  fist,  "eaten  up  in  here  with  the  longing 
to  succeed." 

The  gesture  was  magnificent,  and  with  the  frown- 
ing brows  and  somber  expression  she  was  the  Tragic 
Muse.   If  she  could  only  get  that  into  her  voice! 

"I've  been  at  it  two  years,  with  Vignorol — ^you 
know  him?  I've  learnt  Italian  and  German,  and 
nearly  all  the  great  mezzo  roles.  And  the  polite  ones 
say  what  you  say,  and  the  ones  who  don't  care  about 
your  feelings  say  *A  good  enough  voice,  but  no 
temperament'  "  She  gave  her  body  a  vicious  jerk 
and  the  stool  twirled  her  round  to  me.  "How  in 
heaven's  name  can  I  get  temperament  ?" 

"Well — er — time — and — er — experience  and  sor- 
row— "  I  had  come  up-stairs  to  give  advice,  but  not 
on  the  best  manner  of  acquiring  temperament 

She  cut  me  short. 

"I've  had  experience,  barrels  of  it  And  time? 
I'm  twenty-six  now — am  I  to  wait  till  I'm  seventy? 
And  sorrow?  All  my  relations  are  dead — not  that 
I  care  much,  most  of  them  I  didn't  know  and  those 
I  did  I  didn't  like.  Shall  I  go  and  stand  on  the  cor- 
ner of  Forty-second  Street  and  Broadway  and 
clamor  for  sorrow?" 


•  .^. J  Nv.^:X!-ii :  : 


Hnw  in  hra\rfi  »  n;iuir  can    1   grt  trni|>f  r;iMirnt 


««    «  • 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  jj 

"It'll  come  without  cUinoring/'  I  said.  Upon  that 
subject  I  can  speak  with  some  authority. 

"I  wish  it  would  huriy  up.  I  want  to  arrive,  I 
want  to  be  a  great  prima  donna.  I  wiit  be  a  great 
prima  donna.  I  will  sing  into  that  big  dark  audi- 
torium and  see  those  thousands  of  faces  staring  up  at 
me  and  make  those  thousands  of  dull  fat  pigs  of 
people  sit  up  and  come  to  life." 

She  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  pushed  it  up 
and  picking  up  one  of  the  oranges,  threw  it  out 

"I  hope  that'll  hit  some  one  on  the  head/'  she 
said,  banging  the  window  down. 

"Have  you  had  the  public's  opinion  on  your  sing, 
ing?"  I  asked,  feeling  it  best  to  ignore  her  eccentric- 
ities of  temper. 

"Yes.  I  was  in  a  concert  in  Philadelphia  a  year 
ago,  with  some  others." 

"And  what  was  the  verdict  ?" 

She  gave  a  bitter  smile. 

"The  critics  who  knew  something  and  took  them- 
selves seriously,  said  'A  large  coarse  voice  and  no 
temperament*  The  critics  who  were  just  men  said 
nothing  about  the  singing  and  a  good  deal  about  the 
singer's  looks—"  She  paused,  then  added  with  sulky 
passion,  "Damn  my  looks." 


74  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

She  was  going  to  the  window  again  and  I  hastily 
interposed. 

"Don't  throw  out  any  more  oranges.  You  might 
hit  a  baby  lying  in  its  carriage  and  break  its  nose." 

Though  she  did  not  give  any  evidence  of  having 
heard,  she  wheeled  from  the  window  and  turned 
back  to  me. 

"It's  been  nothing  but  disappointments — sicken- 
ing disappointments.  I  wish  I'd  been  left  where  I 
was.  Three  years  ago  in  California  I  was  living  in 
a  little  town  on  the  line  between  Los  Angeles  and 
San  Francisco.  I  sang  in  the  church  and  got  am- 
bitious and  went  up  to  San  Francisco.  They  made  a 
good  deal  of  fuss  over  me — said  another  big  singer 
was  going  to  come  out  of  California.  I  was  just  be- 
ginning to  wonder  if  I  really  was  some  one,  when 
one  of  those  scratch  little  opera  companies  that  tour 
South  America  and  Mexico  came  up.  Masters,  Jack 
— the  man  you  met  here  the  other  night — was  man- 
aging it  I  got  an  introduction  and  sang  for  him, 
and  you  ought  to  have  heard  him  go  up  in  the  air. 
Bang — pouf! — like  dynamite!  Not  the  way  he  is 
now— oh,  no — " 

She  stopped.    The  memory  of  those  days  of  en- 


THE    BOOK   OE   EVELYN  ;S 

couragemcnt  and  promise  seemed  to  shut  off  her 
voice.  She  stared  out  of  the  window  as  if  she  were 
looking  back  at  them,  her  face  set  in  an  expression 
of  brooding  pain.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  cry, 
but  when  she  spoke  her  voice  showed  an  angry  petu- 
lance far  from  the  mood  of  tears. 

"I'd  never  have  got  such  big  ideas  if  he  hadn't 
given  them  to  me.  I  must  come  on  here  and  study, 
not  waste  myself  on  little  towns  and  little  people. 
Go  for  the  big  prize — that  was  what  /  was  made  for." 
She  suddenly  turned  on  me  and  flung  out  what 
seemed  the  bitterest  of  her  grievance,  "He  made  me 
do  it  ///  insisted  on  my  coming — got  Vignorol  to 
take  me,  paid  for  my  lessons.  It's  his  doing,  all  this." 

So  tMat  was  the  situation.  That  explained  it  alL 
I  was  immensely  relieved.  She  might  be  in  love  with 
him,  but  if  he  was  not  in  love  with  her  (and  he  cer- 
tainly gave  no  evidences  of  it),  it  would  be  easy  to 
get  rid  of  him.  He  was  frankly  discouraged  about 
her,  would  probably  hail  with  relief  any  means  of 
escaping  the  continued  expense  of  her  lessons.  The 
instinct  that  had  brought  me  up-stairs  was  a  good 
one  after  all. 

"Couldn't  you" — I  felt  my  way  carefully  for  the 


76  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

ground  was  delicate — "couldn't  you  put  yourself  in 
some  one  else's  hands.  Get  some  one  else  to— I  don't 
know  what  the  word  is — " 

She  eyed  me  with  an  intent  watching  look  that 
was  disconcerting. 

"Be  my  backer?"  she  suggested. 

I  nodded. 

"No,  I  could  not,"  she  said,  in  a  loud  violent 
tone.  "Go  back  on  the  man  who  tried  to  make  me, 
dragged  me  out  of  obscurity  and  gave  me  my 
chance?  Umph!"  She  turned  away  with  a  scornful 
movement :  "That  would  be  a  great  thing  to  do." 

The  change  was  so  quick  that  it  bewildered  me. 
The  cudgel  with  which  she  had  been  beating  Masters 
was  now  wielded  in  his  defense.  The  ground  was 
even  more  delicate  than  I  had  thought,  and  silence 
was  wisdom  till  I  saw  what  was  coming  next.  I  rose 
from  the  rocky  cushions  and  moved  to  the  window. 

The  light  in  the  little  room  had  grown  dim,  the 
keys  of  the  piano  gleaming  whitely  from  their  dusky 
corner.  With  a  deep  sigh  Miss  Harris  walked  to  the 
sofa,  threw  herself  full  length  on  it  and  lay  still,  a 
tall  dark  shape  looking  up  at  the  ceiling. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say  and  yet  I  did  not  like 
to  leave  her  so  obviously  wretched. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  77 

"Shall  I  light  the  gms?"  I  uked 

••No,"  came  the  answer.  "I  Uke  the  dark." 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  water  the  cyclamen?  They're 
dying." 

"I  da  I  want  them  to  die." 

She  clasped  her  hands  under  her  head  and  con- 
tinued to  gaze  at  the  ceiling.  I  moved  to  the  door 
and  then  paused. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"Ye»— "  the  shifted  her  glance  and  looked  at  me 
from  beneath  lowered  lids.  I  again  received  the  im- 
pression I  had  had  the  evening  when  I  hooked  her 
drew  that  I  was  suddenly  removed  to  an  illimitable 
distance  from  her,  had  diminished  to  an  undecipher* 
able  speck  on  her  horizon.  Never  before  had  I  met 
anybody  who  could  so  suddenly  and  so  effectively 
strike  from  me  my  sense  of  value  and  importance. 

"You  can  do  something  I'd  like  very  much — go," 
the  voice  was  like  a  breath  from  the  arctia 

I  went,  more  amazed  than  angry.  On  the  landing 
I  stood  wondering.  What  had  I  done  to  her?  If  I 
hadn't  been  so  filled  up  with  astonishment  I  might 
have  laughed  at  the  contrast  between  my  recent  sat- 
isfaction in  my  mission  and  my  inglorious  dismissaL 

My  thoughts  were  dispersed  by  voices  from  below. 


78  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

resounding  up  through  the  cleft  of  the  stairs.  From 
a  background  of  concerted  sound,  a  series  of  short 
staccato  phrases  detached  themselves: — 

"My 'at!   Look  at  it!   Ruined!   Smashed!" 

I  looked  over  the  banister.  On  the  floor  below 
stood  the  count  addressing  Miss  Bliss,  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton, Mr.  Hazard  and  Mr.  Weatherby,  who  stood 
ranged  in  their  hallway  in  a  single  line,  staring  up 
at  him.  In  one  extended  arm  he  held  out  a  silk  hat 
in  a  condition  of  collapse.  Their  four  upturned  faces 
were  solemn  and  intent.  Miss  Bliss'  mouth  was 
slightly  open,  Mr.  Hamilton's  glasses  glittered. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  called,  beginning  to  de- 
scend. 

The  count  lifted  a  wrathful  visage  and  shook  the 
hat  at  me. 

"Look  at  my  'at." 

A  chorus  rose  from  the  floor  below : 

"Some  one  smashed  his  hat" 

"Threw  an  orange  on  it" 

"He  says  it  came  from  here." 

"I  think  he's  wrong.  It  must  have  been  the  next 
house." 

"It  was  not,"  cried  the  count,  furious.  "It  was 
'ere — this  'ouse.    I  am  about  to  enter  and  crash — it 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  79 

falls  on  me!    From  there — Above,*'  he  waved  the 
hat  menacingly  at  the  top  floor. 

The  quartet  below  chorused  with  rising  hope. 

"Who's  up  there,  Mrs.  Drakcr* 

"Did  any  one  throw  an  orange?** 

"Is  Miss  Harris  at  home?** 

I  approached  the  count,  alarmed  at  his  hysterical 
Latin  rage. 

"Who  has  throw  the  orange?"  he  demanded,  for- 
getting  his  English  in  his  excitement 

"You  can  have  it  reblocked,"  I  said  comfortingly. 

The  count  looked  as  if  I  had  insulted  him. 

"  'Ere?"  he  cried,  pointing  to  the  ground  at  his 
feet  as  if  a  hatter  and  his  block  were  sitting  there. 
"Never.   I  brought  it  from  Italy.'* 

From  below  the  voices  persisted : 

"Were  you  with  Miss  Harris?**  This  from  Mr 
Hamilton. 

'•Yet,  I  waa.** 

"Did  she  throw  an  orange?"  This  from  Mr. 
Hazard. 

"Why  should  any  one  throw  an  orange  out  of  a 
front  window?" 

Miss  Bliss  answered  that. 

"She  might.    She's  a  singer  and  they  do  quetr 


So  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

things.  I  knew  a  singer  once  and  she  threw  a  clock 
that  wouldn't  go  into  a  bathtub  full  of  water.*' 

This  seemed  to  convince  the  count  of  Miss  Harris* 
guilt. 

"She  did  it.  I  must  see  'er,"  he  cried,  and  tried  to 
get  past  me.  I  spread  my  arms  across  the  passage. 
If  he  and  Miss  Harris  met  in  their  several  fiery 
states  of  mind,  there  would  be  a  riot  on  the  top  floor. 

I  don't  like  to  tell  lies,  but  I  remembered  Roger 
had  said  that  a  gentleman  could  lie  to  shield  another. 
Why  not  a  lady?  Besides,  in  this  case,  I  would 
shield  two  others,  for  I  had  no  doubt  if  Count  Delcati 
intruded  on  Miss  Harris  he  would  be  worsted.  She 
was  quite  capable  of  throwing  the  other  oranges  at 
him  and  the  three-legged  stool. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  I  said.     "She  didn't  throw  it." 

The  male  portion  of  the  lower  floor  chorused : 

"I  knew  she  didn't" 

"She  couldn't  have." 

"Why  should  she?" 

The  count,  with  maledictions  on  the  country,  the 
city,  the  street  and  the  house,  entered  his  room,  the 
Westerners  entered  theirs  and  Mr.  Hamilton  ascend- 
ed to  his.   He  puffed  by  me  on  the  stairs : — 

"Ridiculous  to  accuse  a  lovely  woman  like  Mist 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  St 

Harris  of  such  s  thing.  We  ought  to  dq>ort  these 
Itmlians.  They're  a  menace  to  the  countr>'.*' 

Miss  Bliss  alone  lingered.  She  is  a  pretty,  frowsy 
little  thing  who  looks  cold  and  half  fed,  and  always 
wears  a  kimono  jacket  fastened  at  the  neck  with  a 
safety  pin.  She  waited  till  all  the  doors  had  banged, 
then  looking  up,  hissed  softly : 

"She  did  it  I  was  looking  out  of  my  window  and 
saw  it  coming  down  and  it  couldn't  have  come  from 
anywhere  but  her  room." 

"Hush/'  I  said,  leaning  over  the  banister.  "She 
did    It's  the  artistic  temperament" 

Miss  Bliss,  as  a  model — artist  not  cloak — needed 
no  further  explanation.  With  a  low  comprehending 
murmur  she  stole  into  her  room. 


VI 

THE  count  and  Miss  Harris  have  met  and  all 
fear  of  battle  is  over.  At  the  first  encounter, 
which  took  place  in  my  sitting-room,  it  was  obvious 
that  the  young  man  was  stricken.  Since  then  he  has 
seen  her  twice  and  has  fallen  in  love — at  least  he 
says  he  has. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  sure  of  it  he  came  in  to  tell  me. 
So  he  said  the  other  evening,  sitting  in  the  steamer 
chair  Betty  gave  me  to  replace  the  one  Mrs.  Bushey 
took. 

"You  are  a  woman  of  sympathy,"  he  said,  lighting 
his  third  cigarette,  ''and  I  knew  you  would  under- 
stand." 

Numberless  young  men  have  told  me  of  their  love- 
affairs  and  always  were  sure  I  would  understand.  I 
think  it's  because  I  listen  so  well. 

I  have  a  fire  now.  It  was  easier  to  buy  coal  than 
argue  with  Mrs.  Bushey.  The  count  stretched  his 
legs  toward  it  and  smoked  dreamily  and  I  counted 

82 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  83 

the  cigareiies  in  the  box.  He  smokes  ten  m  an  even- 
ing. 

"She  is  most  beautiful.  I  can  find  only  one  de- 
fect," he  murmured,  "she  is  not  thin  enough." 

"Isn't  she?"  I  said,  in  my  character  of  sympa- 
thetic woman,  "I  thought  she  was  rather  too  thin." 

"Not  for  me,"  answered  the  lover  pensively ;  "no 
one  could  be  too  thin  for  me." 

He  resumed  his  cigarette.  It  was  nine  anu  tncre 
were  seven  left  I  calculated  that  they  would  last 
him  till  eleven. 

"There  was  a  lady  in  Rome  I  once  knew,"  he  be- 
gan in  a  tone  of  reminiscence,  "thin  like  a  match  and 
so  beautiful,"  he  extended  hb  hand  in  the  air,  the 
first  finger  and  thumb  pressed  together  as  if  he 
might  have  been  holding  the  match-like  lady  be- 
tween them,  "a  blonde  with  brown  eyes,  immense 
eyes.  Oh,  Dio  mioT  His  voice  trailed  away  into 
silence,  swamped  by  a  flood  of  memory. 

"Were  you  in  love  with  her,  too?"  I  have  noticed 
that  the  confiding  young  men  expect  the  sympathetic 
woman  to  ask  leading  questions. 

"Yes,"  said  the  count  gravely,  "four  years  ago." 

"You  must  have  been  very  young." 

Such  remarks  as  this  are  out  of  character.   They 


84  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

take  me  unawares  and  come  from  the  American  part 
of  me — not  the  human  universal  part,  but  that  which 
is  individual  and  local. 

"Oh,  no,  I  was  nineteen."  He  went  back  to  his 
memories.  "She  was  all  bones,  but  such  beautiful 
bones.  One  winter  she  had  a  dress  made  of  fur  and 
she  looked  like  an  umbrella  in  it  This  way,"  he 
extended  his  hands  and  described  two  straight  per- 
pendicular lines  in  the  air,  "the  same  size  all  the  way 
up.   Wonderful!" 

"Our  young  men  don't  fall  in  love  so  early,"  I 
said. 

"The}'  don't  fall  in  love  at  all,"  replied  the  count, 
"neither  do  the  women.  TTiey  only  flirt,  all  of  them, 
except  Miss  Harris." 

"Doesn't  she  flirt?" 

I  was  stretching  my  sympathetic  privileges  a  lit- 
tle too  far.  My  excuse  is  curiosity,  vulgar  but  nat- 
ural. I  had  never  before  seen  any  one  like  Miss  Har- 
ris and  I  wanted  to  get  at  the  heart  of  her  mystery. 

"Flirt!"  exclaimed  the  count.  "Does  a  goddess 
flirt?  That's  what  she  is.  Think  of  it — in  this  new 
shiny  country,  in  this  city  with  telephones  and  po- 
licemen, in  this  sad  street  with  the  houses  all  built 
the  same."  He  sat  upright  and  shook  his  cigarette  at 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  8$ 

me.  "She  belongs  where  it  is  all  sunshine  and  joy, 
and  they  dance  and  laugh  and  there  is  no  businesa 
and  nobody  has  a  conscience." 

"Do  yoo  mean  Ancient  Greece  or  Modem 
Naples?" 

The  count  made  a  vague  sweeping  gesture  that 
left  a  little  trail  of  smoke  in  the  air. 

"N'imporU!  But  not  here.  She  is  a  pagan»  a 
natural  being,  a  nymph,  a  dryad.  I  don't  know  what 
in  your  language — but  oh,  something  beautiful  that 
isn't  bothered  with  a  souL" 

I  started.  Masters  and  the  count,  raw  America 
and  sophisticated  Italy,  converging  toward  the  same 
point 

Before  I  could  answer  her  voice  sounded  startling- 
ly  loud  through  the  register.  For  the  first  moment  I 
didn't  recognize  the  strain,  then  I  knew  it — "Vissi 
d'arte,  vissi  d'amart^' — I  have  lived  for  art,  I  have 
lived  for  love.  We  looked  at  each  other  in  surprised 
question  as  the  impassioned  song  poured  from  the 
grating.  It  was  as  if  she  had  heard  us  and  this  was 
her  answer. 

My  knowledge  of  nymphs  and  dryads  is  small, 
but  I  feel  confident  if  one  of  them  had  ever  sung  a 
moden|  Italian  aria  through  a  modem  American 


S6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

register  she  could  not  have  rendered  it  witli  less 
heart  and  soul  than  Miss  Harris  did. 

Yesterday  morning  Betty  telephoned  me  to  come 
and  lunch  with  her.  Betty's  summons  are  not  casual 
outbreaks  of  hospitality.  There  is  always  an  under- 
lying purpose  in  them,  what  a  man  I  know  who 
writes  plays  would  call  "a  basic  idea".  She  is  one 
of  the  few  people  who  never  troubles  about  meaning- 
less formalities  or  superfluous  small  talk.  It's  her 
way,  and  then  she  hasn't  time.  That's  not  just  a 
phrase  but  a  fact  Every  hour  of  her  day  has  its 
work,  good  work,  well  done.  Only  the  poor  know 
Betty's  private  charities,  only  her  friends  the  num- 
ber of  her  businesslike  benefactions. 

Walking  briskly  down  the  avenue  I  wondered 
what  was  her  basic  idea  this  time.  Sometimes  it's 
clothes :  "There  are  some  dresses  on  the  bed.  Look 
them  over  and  take  what  you  like.  The  gray's  rather 
good,  but  I  think  the  pink  would  be  more  becoming. 
I  can  have  it  done  over  for  you  by  my  woman." 
Sometimes  it's  a  reinvestment  of  part  of  my  little 
capital  suggested  by  Harry,  a  high  interest  and 
very  safe.  Once  it  was  an  attempt  to  marry  me  off. 
That  was  last  autumn  when  I  had  just  got  back  from 
Europe,  to  a  man  with  mines  from  Idaho.   When  I 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  87 

grew  tearful  and  reluctant  she  gave  it  up  and  shifted 
him — for  he  was  too  valuable  to  lose — to  a  poor  re* 
lation  of  Harry's. 

We  were  at  lunch  when  the  basic  idea  began  to 
rise  to  the  surface,  Betty  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
very  tight  and  upright  in  purple  cloth  and  chiflfon, 
and  little  Constance,  her  eldest  bom,  opposite  me. 
Little  Constance  is  an  adorable  child  with  a  face  like 
a  flower  and  the  manner  of  a  timid  mouse.  She  loves 
clothes  and  when  I  come  leans  against  me  looking 
me  over  and  gently  fingering  my  jewelry.  She 
won't  speak  until  she  has  examined  it  to  her  satis- 
faction. At  the  table  her  steadfast  gaze  was  diverted 
from  me  to  a  dish  of  glazed  cherries  just  in  front 
of  her. 

The  entr^  was  being  passed  when  Betty,  helping 
herself,  said: 

"Harry's  just  met  a  man  from  Georgia  who  is 
in  cotton — not  done  up  in  it,  his  business."  She 
looked  into  the  dish  then  accusingly  up  at  the  butler : 
"I  said  fried,  not  boiled,  and  I  didn't  want  cream 
sauce.** 

The  butler  muttered  explanations. 

"Tell  her  it  mustn't  happen  again,  no  more  cream 
sauce  for  lunch."    She  helped  herself,  murmuring, 


$S  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"Really  the  most  fattening  thing  one  can  eat." 

"Why  do  you  eat  it  ?"  said  little  Constance,  with- 
drawing her  eyes  from  the  cherries. 

"Because  I  like  to.  Keep  quiet,  Constance.  Mr. 
Albertson,  that's  his  name,  is  well-oflf,  perfectly  pre- 
sentable and  a  widower." 

So  it  was  matrimonial  again. 

"That's  very  nice,"  I  replied  meekly. 

"We'll  have  him  to  dinner  some  night  next  week 
and  you  to  meet  him." 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?  He'd  surely  rather  have 
some  one  younger  and  prettier." 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  he'd  rather  have.  I'll 
telephone  you  when  the  day's  fixed." 

"Betty,"  I  murmured,  looking  at  her  pleadingly. 

"Evie,"  she  returned  firmly,  "don't  be  silly.  The 
present  situation's  got  to  come  to  an  end  some  time." 

"It'll  never  end." 

"Rubbish.  There's  no  sense  in  you  scraping  along 
this  way  in  two  rooms — " 

"Remember  the  kitchenette." 

"In  two  rooms,"  she  went  on,  ignoring  the 
kitchenette.  "Of  course  I  don't  want  you  to  live  in 
Georgia,  but—" 

Little  Constance  showed  a  dismayed  face 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  89 

"It  Evie  going  to  live  in  Georgia?" 

Betty  turned  a  item  gUnce  00  her. 

"G>nstance,  you'll  lunch  up-stmirs  if  you  keep  on 
interrupting." 

Constance  was  unaffected  by  the  threat 

"When  is  she  going?"  she  asked. 

"Never,"  I  answered. 

"I'm  glad/*  said  little  Constance,  and  seeing  her 
mother's  glance  averted,  stole  a  cherry  from  the  dish 
and  hid  it  in  her  lap. 

"From  what  Harry  says,  and  he's  heard  all  about 
Mr.  Albertson,  he  teems  a  perfectly  fitting  person, 
forty-five,  of  very  good  family  and  connection<i.  and 
with  an  income  of  thirty  thousand  a  year." 

"He'll  probably  not  like  me,"  I  said  hopefully. 

"Oh,  he  will,"  answered  Betty  with  grim  mean- 
ing, "I'll  see  to  that" 

I  could  hear  her  retailing  my  perfections  to  Mr. 
Albertson  and  my  heart  sank.  Masterful,  manag- 
ing people  crush  me.  If  the  man  from  Georgia  liked 
me,  as  the  man  from  Idaho  did,  I  foresaw  a  struggle 
and  I  seem  to  have  exhausted  all  my  combative  force 
in  the  year  before  my  husband  died.  I  iooked  at 
little  Constance  and  caught  her  in  the  act  of  popping 
the  cherry  into  her  mouth.   It  was  large  and  she  had 


90  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

to  force  it  into  her  cheek  and  keep  it  there  like  a 
squirrel  with  a  nut  An  expression  of  alarm  was  in 
her  face,  there  was  evidently  less  room  for  it  than 
she  had  expected. 

Betty  went  ruthlessly  on. 

"Your  present  way  of  living  is  absurd — ^you,  made 
for  marriage." 

I  saw  little  Constance's  eyes  grow  round  with 
curiosity,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

"Made  for  companionship.  If  you  were  a  suf- 
fragette or  a  writer,  or  trimmed  hats  or  ran  a  tea- 
room, it  would  be  different,  but  you're  a  thoroughly 
domestic  woman  and  ought  to  have  a  home." 

Little  Constance  bit  the  cherry  with  a  sharp 
crunching  sound.    Betty  looked  at  her. 

"Constance,  are  you  eating  your  lunch?" 

Little  Constance  lifted  her  bib,  held  it  to  her 
mouth,  and  nodded  over  it 

The  danger  was  averted.   Betty  turned  to  me. 

"Marriage  is  the  only  life  for  a  normal  woman. 
Judkins,  I'll  have  some  more  of  those  sweetbreads." 

She  helped  herself,  and  under  the  rattle  of  the 
spoon  and  fork,  little  Constance  crunched  again, 
very  carefully. 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  91 

"And  what  is  the  good  of  living  in  the  past 
That's  over,  thank  heaven." 

"Tmnot  living  in  the  past  any  more.  Betty,  I'm — 
I'm — raising  my  head." 

Betty  looked  sharply  up  from  the  sweetbreads, 
and  I  flinched  under  her  glance.  She  cast  an  eye  on 
Judkins,  who  was  receding  into  the  pantry,  waited 
till  he  was  gone,  then  said,  in  an  eager  hushed  voice : 

"Evie,  don't  tell  me  there's  some  one?** 

Never  have  I  been  more  discomfited  by  the  di- 
rectness of  my  Betty.  I  felt  myself  growing  red  to 
my  new  rat  and  was  painfully  aware  that  little  Con- 
stance, now  crunching  rapidly,  had  fixed  upon  me 
the  deadly  stare  of  an  interested  child. 

"Of  course  there  isn't  What  nonsense.  But  time 
has  passed  and  one  doesn't  stay  broken-hearted  for- 
ever. I'm  not  old  exactly,  and  I'm — that  is— it's 
just  as  I  said,  I'm  beginning  to  come  alive  again." 

"Oh !"  Betty  breathed  out  and  leaned  against  her 
chair-back,  with  a  slight  creaking  of  tight  drawn 
fabrics.  But  she  kept  her  eye  on  me,  in  a  sidelong 
glarcc,  that  contained  an  element  of  inspecting  in- 
quiry. Little  Constance  swallowed  the  cherry  at  a 
gulp  and  the  question  it  had  bottled  up  burst  out : 


92  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

"Evie,  are  you  going  to  get  married?" 

"No,"  I  almost  shouted. 

Little  Constance  said  no  more,  but  her  gaze  re- 
mained glued  to  my  face  in  an  absorption  so  intense 
that  she  leaned  forward,  pressing  her  chest  against 
the  edge  of  the  table.  Betty  played  with  her  knife 
and  fork  with  an  air  of  deep  thought  Judkins  re- 
entered to  my  relief. 

He  was  passing  the  next  dish  when  little  Con- 
stance broke  the  silence. 

"Evie,  why  did  you  get  all  red  just  now?" 

"Constance,"  said  her  mother,  "if  you're  a  good 
girl  and  stop  talking  you  can  have  a  cherry  when 
lunch  is  over." 

"Thanks,  mama,"  said  little  Constance,  in  her 
most  mouse-like  manner. 

After  lunch  we  drove  about  in  the  auto  and 
shopped,  and  as  the  afternoon  began  to  darken  Betty 
haled  me  to  a  reception. 

"Madge  Knowlton*s  daughter's  coming  out,"  she 
said.  "And  as  you  used  to  know  her  before  you 
went  to  Europe,  it's  your  duty  to  come." 

"Why  is  it  my  duty  ?  I  was  never  an  intimate  of 
hers." 

I'm  shy  about  going  to  parties  now;  I  feel  like 
Rip  Van  Winkle  when  he  comes  back. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  93 

**To  twcil  the  crowd.  It's  a  social  service  you  owe 
to  a  fellow  woman  in  distress." 

We  entered  the  house  through  a  canvassed  tunnel 
and  inserted  ourselves  into  a  room  packed  with 
women  and  reverberating  with  a  clamor  of  voices. 
We  had  a  word  and  a  hurried  handclasp  with  Madge 
Knowlton  and  her  daughter,  and  then  were  caught 
in  a  surging  mass  of  humanity  and  carried  into  a 
room  be>'ond.  The  jam  was  even  closer  here.  I 
dodged  a  long  hatpin,  and  was  borne  back  against  a 
mantelpiece  banked  with  flowers  whose  delicate 
dying  breath  mingled  with  the  scents  of  food  and 
French  perfumery.  Wlicn  the  mass  broke  apart  I 
had  momcntar)'  glimpses  of  a  glittering  table  with 
a  woman  at  either  end  who  was  pouring  liquid  into 
cupt. 

At  intervals  the  crowd,  governed  by  some  un- 
known law,  was  seized  by  migratory  impulses.  Seg- 
ments of  it  separated  from  the  rest,  and  drove  to- 
ward the  door.  Here  they  met  other  entering  seg- 
ments with  a  resultant  congestion.  When  thus  solidi- 
fied the  only  humans  who  seemed  to  have  the  key 
of  breaking  us  loose  were  waiters.  They  found  their 
way  along  the  line  of  least  resistance,  making  tortu- 
cm  passages  like  the  cracks  in  an  ice  pack. 

From  them  we  snatched  food.    I  had  a  glass  of 


94  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

punch,  a  cup  of  coffee,  a  chocolate  cake,  two  mar- 
rons  and  a  plate  of  lobster  Neuberg,  in  the  order 
named.  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  why  I  ate  them — 
suggestion  I  suppose.  All  the  other  women  were 
similarly  endangering  their  lives,  and  the  one  pos- 
sible explanation  is  that  we  communicated  to  one 
another  the  same  suicidal  impulse.  It  was  like  the 
early  Christians  going  to  the  lions,  the  bold  ones 
swept  the  weaker  along  by  the  contagion  of  example. 

I  met  several  old  acquaintances  who  cried  as  if 
in  rapturous  delight 

"Why,  Evelyn  Drake,  is  this  really  you?" 

"Evie — I  can't  believe  my  eyes!  I  thought  you 
had  gone  to  Europe  and  died  there." 

"How  delightful  to  see  you  again.  Living  out  of 
town,  I  suppose.  We  must  arrange  a  meeting  when 
I  get  time." 

And  so  forth  and  so  on. 

It  made  me  feel  like  a  resurrected  ghost  who  had 
come  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon.  My  old 
place  was  not  vacant,  it  was  filled  up  and  the  grass 
was  growing  over  it  I  was  glad  when  one  of  those 
blind  stampeding  impulses  seized  the  crowd  and 
carried  me  near  enough  to  Betty  to  cry,  as  I  was 
borne  along,  "I'm  going  home  and  I'd  rather  walk," 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  95 

and  was  swept  hkc  a  chip  on  a  stream  to  the  door. 

It  was  raining,  a  thin  icy  drixxle.  Beyond  the 
thronging  line  of  limousines,  the  streets  were  dark 
with  patches  of  gilding  where  the  lamplight  struck 
along  the  wet  asphalL  They  locked  like  streets  in 
dreams,  mysteriously  black  gullies  down  which  hur- 
ried mysteriously  black  figures.  I  walked  toward 
Lexington  Avenue,  drooping  and  depressed,  in  ac- 
cord with  the  chill  night  and  the  small  sad  noises 
of  the  rain.  I  was  in  that  mood  when  you  walk 
slowly,  knowing  your  best  dress  is  getting  damp  and 
feeling  the  moisture  through  your  best  ahoci  and 
neither  matters.   Nothing  matters. 

Once  I  used  tt>  enjoy  teas,  found  entertainment 
in  those  brief  shouted  conversations,  those  perilous 
feasts.  Perhaps  I  was  sad  because  I  was  so  out  of  it 
all  And  what  was  I  in — what  took  its  place?  I 
was  going  back  to  emptiness  and  silence.  To  greet 
me  would  be  a  \'oiccl«s  darkness,  my  evening  com- 
panion a  book. 

I  got  on  a  car  full  of  damp  paisengen.  As  if 
beaten  down  by  the  relentless  glare  of  the  electric 
lights,  all  the  faces  drooped  forward,  hollows  under 
the  eyes,  lines  round  the  mouths.  They  sat  in  list- 
\tm  poaci,  exhaling  the  smell  of  wet  woolen  and 


96  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

rubber  and  I  sat  among  them,  also  exhaling  damp 
smells — also  with  hollows  under  my  eyes  and  lines 
round  my  mouth.  That,  too,  didn't  matter.  What 
difference  if  I  was  hollowed  and  lined  when  there 
was  no  one  to  care? 

My  room  was  unlighted  and  cold.  I  lighted  the 
gas  and  stood  with  uplifted  hand  surveying  it.  It 
was  like  a  hollow  shell,  an  empty  echoing  shell,  that 
waited  for  a  living  presence  to  brighten  it.  Just  then 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  never  could  do  this — its  lone- 
liness would  be  as  poignant  and  pervasive  when  I 
was  there,  would  steal  upon  me  from  the  corners, 
surround  and  overwhelm  me  like  a  rising  sea.  My 
little  possessions,  my  treasures,  that  were  wont  to 
welcome  me,  had  lost  their  friendly  air.  I  suddenly 
saw  them  as  they  really  were,  inanimate  things 
grasped  and  held  close  because  associated  with  the 
memory  of  a  home.  In  the  stillness  the  rain 
drummed  on  the  tin  roof  and  the  line  in  a  forgotten 
poem  rose  to  my  mind,  "In  the  dead  unhappy  night 
and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof." 

I  snatched  a  match  and  hurried  to  the  fire.  Thrust- 
ing the  flame  between  the  bars  of  the  grate,  I  said 
to  myself: 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  97 

"I  must  get  some  kind  of  a  pet — a  dog  or  a  Per- 
sian cat.     I've  not  enough  money  to  adopt  a  child." 

The  fire  sputtered  and  I  crouched  before  it  I 
didn't  want  any  supper,  I  didn't  want  to  move.  I 
think  a  long  time  passed,  several  hours,  during 
which  I  heard  the  clock  ticking  on  the  mantel  over 
my  head,  and  the  rain  drumming  on  the  roof.  Now 
and  then  the  rumbling  passage  of  a  car  swept  across 
the  distance. 

I  have  often  sat  this  way  and  my  thoughts  have 
always  gone  back  to  the  past  like  homing  pigeons 
to  the  place  where  they  once  had  a  nest.  To-night 
they  went  forward.  My  married  life  seemed  a  great 
way  off,  and  the  Evelyn  Drake  in  it  looked  on  by 
the  Evelyn  Drake  by  the  fire,  a  stranger  long  left 
behind.  The  memories  of  it  had  lost  their  sting, 
even  the  pang  of  disillusion  was  only  a  remembrance. 
With  my  eyes  on  the  leaping  flames  I  looked  over 
the  years  that  stretched  away  in  front,  diminishing 
to  a  point  like  a  railway  track.  My  grandmother  had 
lived  to  eighty-two  and  I  was  supposed  to  be  like 
her.  Would  I,  at  eighty-two,  be  still  a  pair  of  ears 
for  young  men's  love  stories  and  young  women's 
dreams  of  conquest? 


98  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Oh,  those  years,  that  file  of  marching  years,  com- 
ing so  slowly  and  so  inevitably,  and  empty,  all 
empty ! 

The  rain  drummed  on  the  roof,  the  clock  ticked 
and  the  smell  of  my  best  skirt  singeing,  came  deli- 
cately to  my  nostrils.  Even  that  didn't  matter.  From 
thirty-three  to  eighty-two — forty-nine  years  of  it. 
I  looked  down  at  my  feet,  side  by  side,  smoking  on 
the  fender.  Wasn*t  it  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
when  asked  to  define  happiness,  answered,  "four 
feet  on  the  fender"  ? 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door,  probably  the 
count  to  continue  the  recital  of  his  love's  young 
dream.    My  "Come  in"  was  not  warm. 

The  door  opened  and  Roger  entered  in  a  long  wet 
raincoat. 

I  jumped  up  crying  "Rojger,"  and  ran  to  him  with 
my  hand  out. 

He  took  it  and  held  it,  and  for  a  moment  we  stood 
looking  at  each  other  quite  still  and  not  speaking. 
I  was  too  glad  to  say  anything,  too  glad  to  think. 
It  was  an  astonishing  gladness,  a  sort  of  reaction  I 
suppose.  It  welled  through  me  like  a  warm  current, 
must  have  shone  in  my  face,  and  spoken  from  my 
eyes'.   Tve  not  often  in  my  life  been  completely  out- 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  99 

side  myself,  broken  free  of  my  consciousness  and 
soared,  but  I  was  then  just  for  one  minute,  while  I 
looked  into  Roger's  face^  and  felt  his  hand  round 
mine. 

"You're  glad  to  see  me,  Evie,"  he  said  and  his 
voice  sounded  as  if  he  had  a  cold. 

That  broke  the  spell.  I  came  back  to  my  eighteen- 
foot  parlor,  but  it  was  so  different,  cozy  and  pretty 
and  intimate,  full  of  the  things  I  care  for  and  that 
are  friends  to  me.  The  rain  on  the  roof  had  lost  its 
forlornness,  or  perhaps,  by  its  forlornness  accentu- 
ated the  comfort  and  cheer  of  my  little  room. 

We  sat  by  the  fire.  Roger's  feet  were  wet  and  he 
put  them  upon  the  fender. 

"Now,  if  you'd  been  plodding  about  in  the  rain 
with  me  you'd  put  yours  up,  too.  Hullo,  what  have  I 
said?  Your  face  is  as  red  as  a  peony." 

"It's  the  fire.  I've  been  sitting  over  it  for  a  long 
time,"  I  stammered. 

Just  then  the  register  became  vocal,  with  the 
habanera  from  Carmen, 

Roger  got  up  and  shut  it. 

"Don't  you  want  to  hear  her  sing?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  want  to  hear  you  talk,"  said  he. 


VII 

MISS  HARRIS  is  going  to  appear  in  a  con- 
cert. She  came  glowing  and  beaming  into 
my  room  to  tell  me.  Vignorol,  her  teacher,  had  ar- 
ranged it — with  a  violinist  and  a  baritone — in 
Brooklyn. 

"Why  not  New  York?"  I  asked. 

"Not  yet"  said  Miss  Harris,  moving  about  the 
room  with  a  jubilant  dancing  step,  "but  after  this 
is  over — wait  and  see !" 

Great  things  are  expected  to  come  of  it.  The  pub- 
lic's attention  is  to  be  caught,  then  another  concert, 
maybe  an  engagement  in  one  of  the  American  opera 
companies — ^just  for  experience.  It  is  to  be  the  open- 
ing of  a  career  which  will  carry  her  to  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House.  The  baritone  is  another  of 
Vignorol's  pupils,  Berwick,  a  New  Englander — 
nothing  much,  just  to  fill  up.  The  violinist  is  a  Mrs. 
Stregazzi,  who  also  fills  up,  and  little  Miss  Gorringe 
accompanies.  I  was  shown  a  pencil  draft  of  the  pro- 
gram with  Liza  Bonaventura  written  large  at  the 

100 


THE    BOOK    OF-^yjPfJYN      .  •  ;ioi 

top — *'Yes,  it's  to  be  Bonav^ptuia^  I:liad  a:§di{>.mti«, 
tion  about  it,"  and  the  dress  is  to  be  white,  or,  with 
a  sudden  bright  air: 

"I  might  borrow  your  green  satin — but  of  course 
I  couldn't.    You're  too  small." 

Since  then  the  house  has  resounded  with  practis- 
ing from  the  top  floor.  Heavy  steps  and  light  femi- 
nine rustlings  have  gone  up  and  down  the  stairs. 
Once  the  strains  of  a  violin  came  with  a  thin  whine 
through  the  register  as  if  some  melancholy  animal 
was  imprisoned  behind  the  grill.  In  the  dusk  of  the 
lower  hall  I  bumped  into  a  young  man  with  tousled 
hair  and  frogs  on  his  coat,  whom  I  have  since  met  as 
Mr.  Berwick. 

The  star  is  in  a  state  of  joyful  excitement  which 
has  communicated  itself  to  the  rest  of  us.  When  in 
the  evening  she  goes  over  her  repertoire,  the  West- 
erners and  Miss  Bliss  sit  on  the  bottom  steps  of  their 
stairs,  Mr.  Hamilton  and  the  count  on  the  banisters 
of  theirs  and  I  on  the  top  step  of  mine.  A  Niagara 
of  sound  pours  over  us,  billowing  and  rushing  down 
through  the  well,  buffeted  between  the  close  con- 
fining walls.  When  each  piece  is  ended  Miss  Harris 
comes  out  on  her  landing,  leans  over  the  railing  and 
calls  down : 


10^;-*;,      THE  V BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

Then  our  six  faces  are  upturned  and  we  express 
our  approbation,  according  to  our  six  different  na- 
tures. 

Our  mutual  hopes  for  her  success  have  drawn  us 
together  and  we  have  suddenly  become  very  friend- 
ly. Mr.  Hazard  drops  in  upon  me  in  a  paint-stiff- 
ened linen  blouse  and  Mr.  Weatherby  has  confided 
to  me  the  money  to  pay  for  his  laundry.  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton has  smoked  a  large  black  cigar  in  my  dining- 
room,  and  Miss  Bliss  has  come  shivering  with 
hunched  shoulders  and  clasped  red  arms  to  **borrow 
a  warm"  (her  own  expression)  at  my  fire. 

In  my  excursions  to  the  top  floor  I  have  met  Mrs. 
Stregazzi  and  Miss  Gorringe.  Mrs.  Stregazzi  is  a 
large  blond  lady  with  an  ample  figure  and  a  con- 
fidential habit.  On  our  first  meeting  she  called  me 
''dearie"  and  told  me  all  about  her  divorce  from  Mr. 
Stregazzi,  who,  I  gathered,  was  her  inferior,  both  in 
station  and  the  domestic  virtues.  In  his  profession — 
the  stage — ^he  was  something  called  "a  headliner", 
and  appeared  to  be  involved  mysteriously  with 
trained  animals.  Since  his  divorce  he  has  married 
another  "headliner".  It's  like  that  story  of  the 
Frenchman  in  Philadelphia:    "He  is  a  Biddle,  she 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  103 

was  a  Biddle,  they  are  both  Biddies."  I  must  ask 
'Lizzie  Harris  what  it  is.  Miss  Gorringe  is  a  thin 
sallow  girl  with  an  intelligent  face,  and  Mr.  Ber- 
wick a  bulky  silent  New  Englander,  in  the  early 
twenties,  who  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  bust 
of  Beethoven  over  Schirmer's  music  store. 

They  are  strange  people,  artless  as  children,  and 
completely  absorbed  in  themselves  and  their  work. 
They  appear  to  have  no  points  of  contact  with  any 
other  world,  and  the  real  part  of  their  world  is  the 
professional  part.  They  don't  say  much  about  their 
homes  or  their  lives  away  from  it. 

A  few  days  ago  they  took  tea  with  me,  and  as  they 
talked  I  had  a  series  of  glimpses,  like  quickly  shifted 
magic'lantern  slides,  of  their  life  on  trains,  in  hotels, 
behind  the  scenes  and  on  the  stage.  It  seemed  to  me 
a  sort  of  nightmare  of  hurry  and  scramble,  snatched 
meals,  lost  trunks,  cold  dressing-rooms.  Maybe  the 
excitement  makes  up  for  the  rest.  It  must  be  excit- 
ing— at  least  that's  the  impression  I  got  as  I  sat 
behind  the  teacups  listening. 

Lizzie  Harris  seemed  to  find  it  enthralling,  every- 
thing they  said  interested  her.  Mrs.  Stregazzi  told 
some  anecdotes  that  I  didn't  like — I  don't  want  to 
be  a  prig,  but  they  really  were  too  sordid  and  scan- 


104  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

dalous — and  our  prima  donna  hung  on  the  words  of 
that  fat  made-up  woman  as  if  she  spoke  with  the 
tongues  of  men  and  of  angels.  The  more  I  know  of 
her  the  less  able  I  am  to  get  at  the  core  of  her  being, 
to  place  her  definitely  in  my  galleiy  of  "women  I 
have  known."  I  had  finally  decided  that  in  spite  of 
her  tempests,  her  egotism  and  her  weather-cock 
moods,  there  was  something  rare  and  noble  in  her, 
and  here  she  was  drinking  in  cheap  gossip  about  a 
set  of  people  she  didn't  know,  and  who  seem  to  be  a 
mixture  of  artist,  mountebank  and  badly  brought-up 
child. 

As  I  sat  pouring  the  tea  I  felt  again  that  curious 
aloofness  in  her.  But  before  it  was  more  a  with- 
drawal of  her  spirit  into  herself,  a  retreating  into  an 
inner  citadel  and  closing  all  the  doors.  This  time  it 
was  the  spirit  reaching  toward  others  and  shutting 
me  out,  like  a  child  who  forgets  its  playmate  when  a 
circus  passes  by.  She  listened  hungrily,  now  and 
then  commenting  or  questioning  with  a  longing,  al- 
most a  homesick  note.  When  they  rose  to  go,  with  a 
scraping  of  chair-legs  and  a  concerted  clamor  of 
farewells,  she  was  reluctant  to  lose  them,  followed 
them  to  the  hall  and  leaned  over  the  banister 
watching  their  departing  heads. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  105 

She  made  me  feel  an  outsider,  almost  an  intruder. 
I  was  willing  to  efface  myself  for  the  moment  and 
stood  by  the  table  waiting  for  her  to  come  back  and 
reestablish  me  in  her  regard.  She  said  nothing, 
however,  but  brushed  by  the  door  and  went  up-stairs. 
In  a  few  minutes  Musetta's  song  filled  the  house. 
The  next  morning  she  came  in  while  I  was  at  break- 
fast and  asked  me  to  lend  my  green  satin  dress  to 
Miss  Gorringe,  and  when  I  agreed  kissed  me  with 
glowing  affection. 

That  all  happened  early  In  the  week.  Yesterday 
afternoon  I  was  witness  to  a  scene,  the  effect  of 
which  is  with  me  still,  at  midnight,  scratching  this 
down  in  my  rose- wreathed  back  room.  It  was  a 
hateful  scene,  a  horrible  scene — ^but  let  me  de- 
scribe it : 

Calls  of  my  name  descending  from  the  top  floor 
in  Miss  Harris'  voice,  took  me  out  to  my  door. 

"I  am  going  over  some  of  my  things,"  the  voice 
cried.  **Come  up  and  listen.'*  Then,  as  I  ascended, 
"It's  the  scene  between  Brunhilda  and  Siegmund  in 
Die  Walkuere,  the  piice  de  resistance  of  the  even- 
mg. 

I  didn't  find  Miss  Gorringe  as  I  expected,  but  Mr. 
Masters,  sitting  on  the  piano  stool  and  looking  glum. 


io6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

He  rose,  nodded  to  me,  and  sinking  back  on  the  stool, 
laid  his  hands  on  the  keys  and  broke  into  a  desultory 
playing.  With  all  my  ignorance  I  have  heard 
enough  to  know  that  he  played  uncommonly  well. 

The  future  Signorita  Bonaventura  was  looking 
her  best,  a  slight  color  in  her  cheeks,  confidence 
shining  in  her  eyes. 

"We've  been  trying  it  over.   Did  you  hear?" 

The  weather  had  been  warm,  the  register  closed, 
so  I  had  only  heard  faintly. 

"Well,  it's  going  to  be  something  great,"  said  the 
prima  donna. 

"Is  it?"  said  Mr.  Masters  with  his  back  to  us. 

The  sneering  quality  was  strong  in  his  tone  and  I 
began  to  wish  I  hadn't  come. 

"Go  across  the  room,  Mrs.  Drake,"  he  said  curtly. 
"Sit  where  you  can  see  her." 

I  obeyed,  sitting  in  the  corner  by  the  window.  She 
faced  me  and  Mr.  Masters  was  in  profile. 

My  friends  tell  me  I  am  completely  devoid  of 
the  musical  sense.  It  must  be  true,  for  I  can  not  sit 
through  Meistersinger,  and  there  are  long  reaches 
of  Tristan  and  Isolde  that  get  on  my  nerves  like  a 
toothache.  But  I  have  some  kind  of  appreciation,  do 
derive  an  intense  pleasure  from  certain  scenes  in 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  107 

certain  operas.  It  was  one  of  these  scenes  they  were 
now  giving,  that  one  in  the  second  act  of  Die 
Walkuere  when  Brunhilda  appears  before  Sleg- 
mund. 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  drama  rose 
above  the  music,  overpowered  it.  I  supposed  this  to 
be  the  fancy  of  my  own  ignorance  and  never  had  the 
courage  to  say  it.  But  the  other  day  I  read  some- 
where the  opinion  of  Dujardin,  the  French  critic, 
and  he  expressed  just  what  I  mean — "It  is  not  the 
music,  no,  it  is  not  the  music,  that  counts  in  the 
scene,  but  the  words.  The  music  is  beautiful — of 
course  it  is.  It  couldn't  be  otherwise — ^but  Wagner 
was  aware  of  the  beauty  of  the  poetry  and  allowed 
it  to  transpire." 

That  is  exactly  what  I  should  have  said  if  I  had 
dared. 

Masters  struck  the  opening  notes  and  she  began 
to  sing. 

"Slegmund  sleh'  auf  mich!    Ich  bin's  der  bald  du 

folgst — 
Siegmund,  look  on  me.    I  come  to  call  thee  hence." 

What  a  greeting! 

A  stir  of  irritation  passed  through  me.  She  looked 
at  Masters  with  a  friendly  air  and  sang  the  lines 


io8  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

with  an  absence  of  understanding  and  emotion  that 
would  have  robbed  them  of  all  meaning  if  anything 
could.    I  wanted  to  shake  her. 

Then  I  forgot — Masters  began. 

If  I  was  surprised  at  his  playing  his  singing 
amazed  me.  He  had  almost  no  voice,  but  he  had  all 
the  rest — the  wonderful  thing,  imagination,  the  re- 
sponse to  beauty,  power  of  representing  a  state  of 
mind.  I  don't  explain  well,  I  am  out  of  my  province, 
perhaps  it's  better  if  I  simply  say  he  became  Sieg- 
mund. 

As  he  played  he  turned  and  looked  at  her.  His 
whole  face  had  changed,  transformed  by  the  shadow 
of  tragedy.  To  him  Lizzie  was  no  longer  Lizzie,  she 
was  the  helmed  and  armored  daughter  of  Wotan  de- 
livering his  death  summons.  I  can  pay  no  higher 
tribute  to  him  than  to  say  I  forgot  him,  the  burlap 
walls,  the  thin  tones  of  the  piano  and  saw  a  vision 
of  despairing  demigods. 

"Wer  bist  du,  sag'  ? 

Die  so  schon  und  ernst  mir  erscheint?" 

Then  Lizzie: — 

"Nur  Todgeweihten 

Taug^  mein  Anblick : 

Wer  mich  erschaut, 

Der  scheidet  vom  Lebenslicht," 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  109 

My  vision  was  dispelled.  No  one  could  have  kept 
it  listening  to  her  and  watching  her.  As  they  went 
on  what  he  created  she  destroyed;  it  was  the  most 
one-sided,  maddening  performance.  I  found  myself 
eager  to  have  her  stop  that  I  might  hear  him.  Be- 
fore they  had  reached  the  end  I  knew  that  Mr. 
Masters  was  an  artist  and  she  was  not  That  is  all 
there  was  to  it 

She  turned  to  me,  proudly  smiling,  with  a  ques- 
tioning "Well". 

Mr.  Masters,  his  head  drooped,  heaved  a  sigh. 

I  could  not  be  untruthful.  I  had  been  too  deeply 
moved. 

"Your  voice  is  very  fine,"  I  said  in  the  flattest 
of  voices  and  looked  at  her  beseechingly. 

She  met  my  eyes  steadily  and  her  smile  died 
away. 

"Only  a  voice,"  she  said. 

"Miss  Harris,"  I  cried  imploringly.  "You  are 
young,  you  have  beauty — "  She  cut  short  my  bro- 
mides with  an  angry  exclamation. 

"And  no  more  temperament  than  a  tomato  can," 
Mr.  Masters  finished  for  me. 

He  ran  his  fingers  over  the  keyboard  in  a  glitter- 
ing flow  of  notes. 


no  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"You're  a  liar,"  she  cried,  turning  furiously  on 
him. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  her  really  angry, 
not  childishly  petulant  as  in  her  orange-throwing 
mood,  but  shaken  to  her  depth  with  rage.  She  was 
rather  terrible,  glaring  at  Masters  with  a  grim  face. 

"Am  I  ?"  he  said,  coolly  striking  a  chord.  "We'll 
see  Tuesday  night  in  Brooklyn." 

I  had  expected  him  to  answer  her  in  kind,  but  he 
only  seemed  weary  and  dispirited.  Her  chest  rose 
with  a  deep  breath  and  I  saw  to  my  alarm  that  she 
had  grown  paler. 

"You  didn't  always  think  that,"  she  said  in  a 
muffled  voice. 

**No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "I  believed  in  you 
at  first." 

He  spread  his  hands  in  a  long  clutching  move- 
ment and  struck  another  chord.  It  fell  deep  into  the 
momentary  silence  as  if  his  powerful  fingers  were 
driving  it  down  like  a  clencher  on  his  words. 

"And  you  don't  any  more?" 

"No,  I've  about  done  believing,"  he  responded. 

She  ran  at  him  and  seized  him  by  the  shoulder. 
He  jerked  it  roughly  out  of  her  grasp  and  twirling 
round  on  the  stool  faced  her,  exasperated,  defiant, 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  iii 

a  man  at  the  end  of  his  patience.  But  his  eyes  said 
more,  full  of  a  steely  dislike.  She  met  them  and 
panted : 

"You  can't,  you  don't.  Even  you  couldn't  be  so 
mean — "  then  she  stopped,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  for 
the  first  time  conscious  of  the  hostility  of  his  gaze. 
There  was  the  pause  of  the  realizing  moment  and 
when  she  burst  out  her  voice  was  strangled  with 
passion : 

"Go — get  out — go  away  from  me.  I'm  sick  of  it 
all.    I'll  stand  no  more — go— go." 

She  ran  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open.  I  got  up 
to  make  my  escape.  Neither  of  them  appeared  to  re- 
member I  was  there. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  calmly  rising.  "That  suits 
me  perfectly." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  moved  to  the 
door.  I  tried  to  get  there  before  him,  dodging  about 
behind  their  backs  for  an  exit,  then,  like  a  fright- 
ened chicken,  made  a  nervous  dive  and  got  between 
them.  Her  hand  on  my  arm  flung  me  back  as  if  I 
had  been  a  chair  in  the  way.  I  had  a  glimpse  of 
her  full  face,  white  and  with  burning  eyes.  She 
frightened  me. 

Mr.  Masters  walked  into  the  hall  and  there  came 


112  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

to  a  standstill.  After  looking  at  the  back  and  front 
of  his  hat  he  settled  it  comfortably  on  his  head 
and  moved  toward  the  stairs. 

Suddenly  she  rushed  after  him  and  caught  him  by 
the  arm. 

"No— no— "  she  cried.  "Don't  go." 

I  couldn't  see  her  face,  but  his  was  in  plain  view 
and  it  looked  exceedingly  bored. 

"What  is  it  now?"  he  said. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to.  I'm  so  discour- 
aged— you  take  the  heart  out  of  me.  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  saying  and  I've  tried  so  hard — oh,  Jack — " 

Her  voice  broke,  her  head  sank.  Mr.  Master's  ex- 
pression of  boredom  deepened  into  one  of  endurance. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked  with 
weary  patience. 

"Come  back.  Don't  be  angry.  Forget  what  I 
said." 

She  began  to  cry,  shielding  her  face  with  one 
hand,  the  other  still  holding  him  by  the  sleeve. 

He  sighed,  and  glancing  up,  saw  me.  I  expected 
him  to  drive  me  forth  with  one  fierce  look.  Instead 
he  made  a  slight  grimace  and  reentered  the  room, 
she  holding  to  his  sleeve.  He  dropped  heavily  on 
the  piano  stool  and  she  on  the  chair  opposite,  her 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  113 

hands  in  her  lap,  two  lines  of  tears  on  her  cheeks. 
Neither  said  a  word. 

The  way  was  clear  and  I  flew  out  with  the  wild 
rush  of  a  bird  escaping  from  a  snare.  As  I  ran 
down  the  stairs  the  silence  of  that  room,  four  walls 
enclosing  a  tumult  of  warring  passions,  followed 
me. 

It's  midnight  and  I  haven't  got  over  the  ugliness 
of  it.  What  am  I  to  think  ?  The  thing  many  people 
would  think,  I  won't  believe,  I  can't  believe.  No 
one  who  knew  her  could.  That  the  unfortunate  crea- 
ture loves  him  is  past  a  doubt — but  how  can  she? 
How  can  she  humiliate  herself  so?  Where  is  the 
pride  that  the  rest  of  us  have  for  a  shield  and 
buckler.  Where  is  the  self-respect?  To  cry — ^to  let 
him  see  her  cry,  and  then — that's  the  comble,  as 
the  Paris  art  students  say^-to  call  him  back ! 

I  feel  sick,  for  I  love  her.  If  she  hasn't  got  a  soul 
or  temperament  or  any  of  the  rest  of  it  that  they  do 
so  much  talking  about,  she's  got  something  tucked 
away  somewhere  that's  gfood,  that's  true.  It  looks 
at  you  out  of  her  eyes,  it  speaks  to  you  in  her  voice— 
and  then  Masters  comes  along  and  it's  gone. 

I  stopped  here,  and  biting  the  end  of  my  pen, 
looked  gloomily  at  the  wall  and  met  the  cold  stare  of 


114  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

my  ancestors.  I  wonder  what  the  men  would  have 
said  if  they  had  been  there  this  afternoon.  I'm  not 
sure — men  are  men  and  Lizzie  is  beautiful.  But 
about  you  ladies,  I  can  make  a  guess.  You  would 
purse  your  mouths  a  little  tighter  and  say,  *'Evelyn, 
you're  keeping  queer  company.  Whatever  you  may 
think  in  your  heart,  drop  her.  That's  the  wise 
course."  All  but  the  French  Huguenot  lady,  she's 
got  an  understanding  eye.  She  feels  something  that 
the  others  never  felt,  probably  saw  a  little  deeper 
into  life  and  it  softened  the  central  spot. 

No,  my  dears,  you're  all  wrong.  You're  judging 
by  appearances  and  fixed  standards,  which  is  some- 
thing your  descendant  refuses  to  do.  Go  to  sleep 
and  try  and  wake  up  more  humble  and  humane. 
Good  night. 


VIII 

BETTY  had  the  dinner  for  Mr.  Albertson  last 
night  and  of  course  I  went,  for  Betty  is  like 
royalty,  she  doesn't  invite,  she  commands.  In  a  brief 
telephone  message  she  instructed  me  to  wear  my  blue 
crepe  and  I  wore  it.  Before  dinner,  in  her  room,  she 
eyed  me  critically  and  put  a  blue  aigrette  in  my  hair. 

Mr.  Albertson  was  a  gallant  Southerner  with 
courtly  manners  and  a  large  bald  spot.  We  got  on 
very  nicely,  though  he  did  not  exhibit  that  apprecia- 
tion of  my  charms  that  marked  the  Idaho  man  from 
the  moment  of  our  meeting.  If,  however,  he  should 
develop  it  I  have  resolved  to  crush  it  by  strategy. 
I  don't  know  just  how  yet — the  only  thing  I  can 
think  of  at  present  is  to  ask  him  to  call  and  pretend 
I'm  drunk  like  David  Garrick.  I'll  get  a  better  idea 
if  the  necessity  arises.  I  haven't  the  courage  to  defy 
Betty  twice. 

Betty  sent  me  home  in  the  limousine,  without  the 
footman  and  the  chow  dog.  It  was  a  cold  still  night, 
the  kind  when  the  sky  is  a  deep  Prussian  blue  and 

"5 


ii6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

all  the  lights  have  a  fixed  steady  shine.  As  the  car 
wheeled  into  Fifth  Avenue  and  I  sat  looking  out  of 
the  window,  revolving  schemes  for  the  disenchanting 
of  Mr.  Albertson,  I  saw  Roger  walking  by.  Before 
I  thought  I  had  beckoned  to  him  and  struck  on  the 
front  window  for  the  chauffeur  to  stop.  The  car 
glided  to  the  curb  and  Roger's  long  black  figure 
came  running  across  the  street. 

"You!"  he  cried,  "like  a  fairy  princess  with  a 
feather  in  your  hair.  What  ball  are  you  coming 
from,  Cinderella?" 

As  soon  as  he  spoke  I  grew  shy.  Do  the  women 
who  have  ready  tongues  and  the  courage  of  their 
moods,  realize  the  value  of  their  gifts? 

*T — I — it's  not  a  ball,  it's  Betty  Ferguson's  and 
she's  sending  me  home.'* 

"All  right."  He  said  something  to  the  chauffeur, 
stepped  in  and  the  car  started.  "What  a  piece  of 
luck.  I  was  coming  from  a  deadly  dinner  and  going 
to  a  deadly  club.   What  inspired  you  to  hail  me?" 

Nothing  did,  or  something  did  that  I  couldn't  ex- 
plain. I  felt  round  for  an  answer  and  produced  the 
first  that  came. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  something." 

"Go  ahead."    He  pulled  the  rug  over  me.    "It's 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  117 

a  nipping  cold  night  abroad.  Let's  hear  what  it 
was  you  wanted  to  talk  about." 

For  a  moment  I  thought  of  telling  him  of  Lizzie 
Harris  and  Mr.  Masters,  then  I  knew  that  wouldn't 
do.  Lizzie's  secrets  were  my  secrets.  I  had  to  tell 
him  something  and  in  my  embarrassment  I  told  him 
the  first  thing  that  came  into  my  head. 

"Betty  asked  me  to  dinner  to  meet  a  man  from 
Georgia." 

As  soon  as  I  had  said  it  I  had  a  sick  feeling  that 
he  might  be  wondering  why  I  should  stop  him  on 
Fifth  Avenue  at  eleven  o'clock  of  a  winter's  night, 
to  impart  this  piece  of  intelligence. 

He  received  it  with  the  dignity  of  a  valuable  com- 
munication. 

"Did  she?  And  what  was  he  like?"     ' 

"Very  charming.  His  name's  Albertson  and  he 
has  cotton  mills  down  there." 

"Must  be  a  man  of  means." 

"I  believe  he  is." 

It  was  very  nice  of  Roger  to  take  it  so  simply  and 
naturally,  but  you  can  always  rely  on  his  manners. 
My  embarrassment  passed  away.  The  auto  sped  out 
into  the  concentrated  sparklings  of  Plaza  Square, 
then  swerved  to  the  left,  sweeping  round  the  statue 


Ii8  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

of  Sherman  led  to  victory  by  a  long-limbed  and 
resolute  angel. 

*'We're  going  the  wrong  way.  What's  Nelson  do- 
ing?" I  raised  a  hand  to  rap  on  the  window. 

"I  told  him  to  take  us  through  the  park.  Put  your 
hand  in  your  muff.  Why  did  Betty  ask  you  to  meet 
Mr.  What's-his-name  from  Georgia?" 

I  know  every  tone  of  Roger's  voice,  and  the  one 
he  used  to  ask  that  question  was  chilly.  Betty's  plans 
involved  no  secrecy,  so  I  said,  laughing: 

"I  think  she's  trying  to  make  a  match." 

"Oh,"  said  Roger. 

I  had  thought  he  would  laugh  with  me,  but  in  that 
brief  monosyllable  there  was  no  amusement.  It  came 
with  a  falling  note,  and  it  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  ex- 
tinguisher on  the  conversation,  a  full  stop  at  the  end 
of  it,  for  we  both  fell  silent. 

The  auto  swept  up  the  drive,  gray  and  smooth  be- 
tween gray  trees.  I  could  see  a  reach  of  deep  blue 
sky  with  the  stars  looking  big  and  close,  as  if  they 
had  come  down  a  few  billion  miles  and  were  looking 
us  over  with  an  impartial  curiosity.  Across  the  park 
the  fronts  of  apartment-houses  showed  in  gleaming 
tiers,  far  up  into  the  night,  their  lights  yellower 
than  the  stars.   It  was  lovely  to  glide  on,  swiftly  and 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  119 

smoothly,  with  the  frost  gripping  the  world  in  an 
icy  clasp  while  we  were  warm  and  snug  and  so 
friendly  that  we  could  be  silent. 

"Isn't  this  beautiful,  Roger?"  I  said,  looking  out 
of  the  window.  "Look  on  the  other  side  of  the  park, 
hundreds  of  lights  in  hundreds  of  homes." 

Roger  gave  a  sound  that  if  I  were  a  writer  of 
realistic  tendencies,  I  should  call  a  grunt. 

We  met  a  hansom  with  the  glass  down,  and  on  an 
ascending  curve  another  auto  swooping  by  with  two 
great  glaring  lamps.  I  felt  quite  oddly  happy ;  the 
menacing  figure  of  Mr.  Albertson  became  no  more 
than  a  bogy.  After  all  even  Betty  couldn't  drag  me 
struggling  to  the  altar. 

"Why  is  Betty  so  anxious  to  many  you  off?" 
came  suddenly  from  the  comer  beside  me. 

Mr.  Albertson  assumed  his  original  shape  as  a 
marriageable  male  with  a  bald  spot  and  a  cotton 
mill,  and  Betty  slipped  back  into  position.  I  wasn't 
sure  she  couldn't  drag  any  one  to  the  altar  if  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  it.  My  voice  showed  the  op- 
pression of  this  thought. 

"She  thinks  all  women  should  be  married." 

"You  have  been  married." 

Something  was  the  matter  with  Roger  to  say  that 


I20  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

"Well,  she  thinks  Tm  poor  and  lonely/' 

''Are  you?** 

I  began  to  have  an  uncomfortably,  complicated 
feeling.  Fear  was  in  it,  also  exhilaration.  It  made 
me  sit  up  stiffly,  suddenly  conscious  of  a  sensation  of 
trembling  somewhere  inside. 

*'I  am  poor,"  I  said,  "that  is,  poor  compared  to 
people  like  Betty." 

"And  lonely,  too?" 

The  disturbance  grew.  It  made  me  draw  away 
from  Roger,  pressed  close  into  my  corner,  as  if  no 
scrap  or  edge  of  my  clothing  must  touch  him.  I  was 
afraid  that  my  voice  would  show  it  and  determined 
that  it  mustn't. 

"Fm  lonely  sometimes.  That  rainy  night  when 
you  came  in  unexpectedly  I  was." 

My  voice  zvasn't  all  right.  I  cleared  my  throat  and 
pretended  to  look  at  the  stars. 

Roger  said  nothing,  but  the  secret  subways  of 
emotion  that  connect  the  spirits  of  those  who  are  in 
close  communion,  told  me  he,  too,  was  moved.  The 
air  in  the  closed  scented  car  did  not  seem  enough  for 
natural  breathing.  It  was  like  a  pressure,  something 
that  put  your  heart-beats  out  of  tune,  and  made  your 
lips  open  with  a  noiseless  gasp.   I  stood  it  as  long  as 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  121 

I  could  and  then  words  burst  out  of  me.  They  came 
anyway,  ridiculous  words  when  I  write  them  down : 

"But  I'll  never  marry  any  of  them.  No  matter 
what  they  are,  or  what  Betty  wants,  or  how  many  of 
them  she  has  up  to  dinner." 

The  pressure  was  lifted  and  I  sank  back  trembling. 
It  was  as  if  I  had  been  under  water  and  come  up 
again  into  the  air.  The  spiritual  telegraph  told  me 
that  Roger  felt  as  I  did,  and  that  suddenly  he  or  I 
or  both  of  us,  had  broken  down  a  barrier.  It  was 
swept  away  and  we  were  close  together — closer  than 
the  night  when  we  had  held  hands  and  forgotten 
where  we  were,  closer  than  we'd  ever  been  in  all 
the  years  we'd  known  each  other.  It  was  not  neces- 
sary to  say  anything.  In  our  several  corners  we  sat 
silent,  understanding  for  the  first  time,  I  and  the 
man  I  loved. 

The  sharp  landscape  slid  by  us,  naked  trees, 
spotted  lines  of  light,  stretches  of  lawn  grizzled  with 
frost,  woodland  depths  with  the  shine  of  ice  about 
the  tree  roots,  and  then  the  flash  of  glassy  ponds. 

We  sat  as  still  as  if  we  were  dead,  as  if  our  souls 
had  come  out  of  our  bodies  and  were  whispering. 
It  was  a  wonderful  moment  of  time,  one  of  the  un- 
forgetable  moments  that  dot  the  long  material  years. 


122  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

All  that's  gone  before  and  all  that's  going  to  come 
dies  away  and  there's  only  the  present — the  beauti- 
ful exquisite  present.  We  only  have  a  few  like  that 
in  our  lives. 

It  lasted  till  the  auto  drew  up  at  my  door.  We  said 
good  night  and  parted. 

Up  in  my  room  I  sat  a  long  time  by  the  fire  think- 
ing of  the  hundreds  of  women  like  myself,  the  dis- 
illusioned ones,  in  the  dark  dens  of  tenements  and 
in  the  splendid  homes  near  by.  I  tried  to  send  them 
messages  through  the  night,  telling  them  we  could 
rise  out  of  the  depths.  I  saw  life  as  it  really  is,  hills 
and  valleys,  patches  of  blackness  and  then  light, 
but  always  with  an  unresting  force  flowing  beneath, 
the  immortal  thing  that  urges  and  upholds  and 
makes  it  all  possible.  I  remembered  words  I  used  to 
work  on  bits  of  perforated  board  when  I  was  a  lit- 
tle girl,  "God  is  Love."  I  never  understood  what  it 
meant,  even  when  I  stopped  working  it  on  perfo- 
rated board  and  grew  to  the  reasoning  stage.  To- 
night I  knew — got  at  last  what  a  happy  child  might 
understand — love  in  the  heart  was  God  with  us, 
come  back  to  us  again. 


IX 

YESTERDAY  was  the  concert  day  and  I 
couldn't  go— a  bad  cold.  The  house  lamented 
from  all  its  floors,  for  it  was  going  en  masse,  even  the 
trained  nurse  with  a  usurped  right  to  the  sun-dial. 

The  only  way  I  could  add  to  the  festivity  of  the 
occasion  was  to  distribute  my  possessions  among  that 
section  of  the  audience  drawn  from  Mrs.  Bushey's 
light  housekeeping  apartments.  It  began  with  the 
Signorita  Bonaventura,  who  wore  my  mother's  dia- 
mond pendant,  then  went  down  the  line: —  Miss 
Gorringe  my  green  satin  (she  said  it  would  be  hor- 
ribly unbecoming,  but  the  audience  wouldn't  notice 
her),  Miss  Bliss  my  black  lynx  furs,  Mrs.  Phillips, 
the  nurse,  my  evening  cloak,  Mr.  Hazard  my  opera 
glasses,  Mr.  Weatherby  my  umbrella — his  had  a 
broken  rib  and  it  looked  like  snow.  We  were  afraid 
the  count  couldn't  find  anything  suitable  to  his  age 
and  sex,  but  he  emptied  my  bottle  of  Coty's  Jacque- 
minot on  his  handkerchief  and  left,  scented  like  a 
florist's.     Mrs.  Bushey  came  last  and  gleaned  the 

123 


124  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

field,  a  gold  bracelet,  a  marabou  stole  and  a  lace 
handkerchief  she  swore  she  wouldn't  use. 

Much  noise  accompanied  the  passage  of  the  day 
and  some  threatening  mishaps.  At  eleven  we  heard 
Berwick  was  hoarse,  but  at  one  (by  telephone 
through  my  room)  that  raw  eggs  and  massage  were 
restoring  him.  At  midday  Miss  Gorringe  sent  a 
frantic  message  that  the  sash  of  the  green  satin 
wasn't  in  the  box.  Gloom  settled  at  two  with  a  bulle- 
tin that  Mrs.  Stregazzi's  second  child  had  croup.  It 
was  better  at  five.  Mr.  Hazard's  dress  suit  smelled 
so  of  moth  balls  that  the  prima  donna  said  it  would 
taint  the  air,  and  Emma,  the  maid,  hung  it  out  on  the 
sacred  sun-dial.  There  was  a  battle  over  this.  For 
fifteen  minutes  it  raged  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  then 
Mr.  Hazard  conquered  and  the  sun-dial  was  draped 
in  black  broadcloth. 

At  intervals  Lizzie  came  down  to  see  me  and  use 
the  telephone.  She  was  in  her  most  aloof  mood,  for- 
bidding, self-absorbed.  On  one  of  her  appearances 
she  found  a  group  of  us  congregated  about  my  steam 
kettle.  Our  chatter  died  away  before  her  rapt  and 
unresponsive  eye.  Even  I,  who  was  used  to  it,  felt 
myself  fading  like  a  photographic  proof  in  a  too 
brilliant  sun.  As  for  the  others  they  looked  small  and 


THE    BOOK  OF    EVELYN  125 

frightened,  like  mice  in  the  presence  of  a  well-fed 
lioness,  who,  though  she  might  not  want  to  eat  them, 
was  still  a  lioness.  They  breathed  deep  and  un- 
limbered  when  the  door  shut  on  her. 

In  the  late  afternoon  Roger  came  to  see  me.  He 
brought  a  bunch  of  violets  and  a  breath  of  winter 
into  my  bright  little  room.  The  threatening  snow 
had  begun  to  fall,  lodging  delicately  on  eaves  and 
ledges,  a  scurry  of  tiny  particles  against  the  light  of 
street-lamps.  We  stood  in  the  window  and  watched 
it,  trimming  the  house-fronts  with  white,  carpeting 
the  steps,  spreading  a  blanket  ever  so  softly  and 
deftly  over  the  tin  roof.  How  different  to  the  rain, 
the  insistent  ruthless  rain.  The  night  when  the  rain 
fell  came  back  to  me.  How  different  that  was  from 
to-night  I 

There  was  a  hubbub  of  voices  from  the  hall  and 
then  a  knock.  They  were  coming  to  see  me  before 
they  left.  They  entered,  streaming  in,  grubs  turned 
to  butterflies.  The  house  was  going  cheaply  in  cars 
over  the  bridge;  only  the  prima  donna  and  Miss 
Gorringe  were  to  travel  aristocratically  in  a  cab. 

Strong  scents  from  the  count's  Jacqueminot 
mingled  with  the  faint  odor  of  moth  balls  that  Mr. 
Hazard^s  dress  suit  still  harbored.    Miss  Gorringe 


126  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

had  rouged  a  little  and  the  green  satin  was  quite 
becoming.  Miss  Bliss  had  rouged  a  good  deal  and 
had  had  her  hair  marcelled.  In  the  doorway  the 
trained  nurse  hung  back,  sniffing  contemptuously  at 
Mr.  Hazard's  back.  Mrs.  Bushey,  Mr.  Hamilton  and 
Mr.  Weatherby  grouped  themselves  by  the  fireplace. 

"Where's  the  prima  donna?"  I  asked. 

"Coming,"  cried  a  voice  from  the  stairs,  and  the 
air  was  filled  with  silken  rustlings. 

It  was  like  an  entrance  on  the  stage,  up  the  pas- 
sage and  between  the  watching  people,  and  I  don't 
think  any  actress  could  have  done  it  with  more 
aplomb.  In  her  evening  dress  she  was  truly  superb — 
a  goddess  of  a  woman  with  her  black  hair  in  luster- 
less  coils  and  her  neck  and  shoulders  as  white  as 
curds.  Upon  that  satiny  bosom  my  mother's  pendant 
rose  and  fell  to  even  breathings.  Whatever  anybody 
else  may  have  felt,  the  star  of  the  occasion  was 
calm  and  confident. 

Her  appearance  had  so  much  of  the  theatrical 
that  it  must  have  made  us  suddenly  see  her  as  the 
professional,  the  legitimate  object  of  glances  and 
comments.  Nothing  else  could  explain  why  I— a 
person    of    restrained    enthusiasms — ^should    have 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  127 

broken  into  bald  compliments.  She  took  them  with 
no  more  self-consciousness  than  a  performing  animal 
takes  the  gallery's  applause,  smiled  slightly,  then 
looked  at  Roger,  the  stranger.  I  did  so,  too,  child- 
ishly anxious  to  see  if  he  admired  my  protegee.  He 
evidently  did,  for  he  was  staring  with  the  rest  of 
them,  intent,  astonished. 

Her  glance  appeared  to  gather  up  his  tribute  as 
her  hands  might  have  gathered  flowers  thrown  to 
her.  He  was  one  of  the  watching  thousands  that  it 
was  her  business  to  enthrall,  his  face  one  of  the 
countless  faces  that  were  to  gaze  up  at  her  from 
tier  upon  tier  of  seats. 

When  the  door  shut  on  the  last  of  them,  laughter 
and  good  nights  diminishing  down  the  stairs,  he 
turned  to  me  with  an  air  that  was  at  once  bewildered 
and  accusing. 

"Why  in  heaven's  name  didn't  you  tell  me  she 
was  so  good-looking?" 

"I  did  and  you  wouldn't  believe  me,"  I  answered 
gaily,  for  I  was  greatly  pleased.  It  was  a  little 
triumph  over  Roger  with  his  hypercritical  taste  and 
his  rare  approvals. 

The  next  morning  I  waited  anxiously  for  news. 


128  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  thought  Lizzie  would  be  down  early,  but  the  others 
came  before  her,  dropping  in  as  the  morning  wore 
away.   With  each  entrance  I  grew  more  uneasy. 

Mr.  Hazard  was  first,  in  a  gray  sweater. 

"Well,  she  looked  great.  I  wish  I  could  have 
painted  her  that  way.  But — "  he  tilted  his  head,  his 
expression  grown  dubious.  "You  know,  Mrs.  Drake, 
I  don't  know  one  tune  from  another — ^but — '* 

"But  what?"  I  said  sharply. 

"Well,  it  seemed  to  me  Berwick  got  away  with  it." 

"Do  you  mean  the  audience  liked  him  better?" 

He  nodded,  a  grave  agreeing  eye  on  me. 

"He  got  them  when  he  sang  that  thing  about  The 
Three  Grenadiers.   It  made  your  heart  swell  up." 

He  leaned  nearer,  lowering  his  voice.  "And  he 
got  them  in  that  German  duet,  too." 

He  drew  back  and  nodded  again  darkly,  as  If 
wishing  me  to  catch  a  meaning  too  direful  for  words. 

An  hour  later  Miss  Bliss  blew  in  in  a  blue  flannel 
jacket  and  the  remnants  of  her  marcelle  wave.  By 
contrast  with  her  flushed  and  blooming  appearance 
of  the  evening  before,  she  looked  pinched  and  pallid. 
She  cowered  over  the  fire,  stretching  her  little 
chapped  hands  to  the  blaze  and  presenting  a  narrow 
humped  back  to  my  gaze. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  129 

"She  didn't  seem  to  catch  on  some  way  or  other. 
I  don't  know  why  but — " 

She  stopped  and  leaned  forward  for  the  poker. 

''But  what?" 

''Well — "  She  poked  the  fire,  the  edge  of  the 
flannel  jacket  hitched  up  by  the  movement,  showing 
a  section  of  corset  laced  with  the  golden  string  that 
confines  candy  boxes.  "She  doesn't  give  you  any 
thrill.  I've  heard  people  without  half  so  much  voice 
who  could  make  the  tears  come  into  your  eyes.  I 
tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Drake,"  she  turned  round  with 
the  poker  uplifted  in  emphasis,  "/  wouldn't  spend 
mjf  good  money  to  hear  a  woman  sing  that  way. 
If  I  shell  out  one-fifty  I  want  to  get  a  thrill.*' 

She  was  still  there  when  the  count  came  in.  He 
sat  between  us  gently  rocking  and  eying  her  with  a 
pensive  stare.  She  pulled  down  her  jacket  and  patted 
solicitously  at  the  remains  of  her  marcelle. 

"She  looked,"  said  the  count,  pausing  in  his 
rocking,  "she  looked  like  a  queen." 

"Good  gracious,"  I  cried  crossly,  "do  drop  her 
looks.    I  saw  her." 

The  count,  unmoved  by  my  irritation,  answered 
mildly : 

"One  can't  drop  them  so  easily." 


130  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

*'But  her  singing,  her  performance?" 

"Her  performance,"  murmured  the  young  man, 
and  appeared  to  look  through  Miss  Bliss  at  a  distant 
prospect.  "It  was  good,  but — " 

I  had  to  restrain  myself  from  screaming,  "But 
what?" 

"It  was  not  so  good  as  she  is,  had  none  of  the — 
what  shall  I  say — air  noble  that  she  has."  He 
screwed  up  his  eyes  as  if  projecting  his  vision  not 
only  through  Miss  Bliss,  but  through  all  intervening 
objects  to  a  realm  of  pure  criticism.  "It  has  a 
bourgeois  quality,  no  distinction,  no  imagination, 
and  she — "  Words  were  inadequate  and  he  finished 
the  sentence  with  a  shrug. 

Miss  Bliss  leaned  forward  and  poked  the  fire, 
once  more  revealing  the  golden  string.  The  count 
looked  at  it  with  a  faint  arrested  interest.  I  was 
depressed,  but  conventions  are  instinctive,  and  I  said 
sternly : 

"Miss  Bliss,  let  the  count  poke  the  fire." 

The  count  poked  and  Miss  Bliss  slipped  to  the 
floor,  and  sitting  cross-legged,  comfortably  warmed 
her  back. 

The  count  was  gone  when  Mrs.  Bushey  entered. 
Mrs.  Bushey  says  she  understands  music  even  as  she 
does  physical  culture. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  131 

**It  was  a  frost,"  she  explained,  dropping  on  the 
end  of  the  sofa. 

"I  know  that,"  I  answered,  "the  paper  this  morn- 
ing said  the  thermometer  was  twenty-two  degrees." 

"Not  that  kind  of  a  frost,  a  theatrical  frost  for 
her.    She  hasn't  got  the  quality." 

"No  thrill,"  murmured  Miss  Bliss,  and  no  men 
being  present,  stretched  out  her  feet  and  legs  in  worn 
slippers  and  threadbare  stockings  to  the  blaze. 

I  fought  against  my  depression — Mrs.  Bushey  did 
not  like  Bonaventura. 

"She  hasn't  got  the  equipment,"  said  Mrs.  Bushey 
with  a  sagacious  air.  Her  eye  roamed  about  the 
room  and  lighted  on  Miss  Bliss'  legs.  "Are  you 
cold?"  she  asked,  as  if  amazed. 

"Frozen,"  answered  Miss  Bliss  crossly. 

"How  can  that  be  possible  when  I've  done  every- 
thing to  make  your  room  warm,  spent  all  my  winter 
earnings  on  coal  ?" 

Miss  Bliss  cocked  up  her  chin  and  replied : 

"You  must  have  had  very  poor  business  this  win- 
ter." Then  to  me  very  pointedly :  "I  wanted  to  ask 
you,  Mrs.  Drake,  if  you'd  lend  me  your  Navajo 
blanket,  just  for  a  few  nights.  It  would  look  so  bad 
for  the  house  if  I  was  found  frozen  to  death  in  bed 
some  morning." 


132  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  agreed  with  alarmed  haste,  but  Mrs.  Bushey 
did  not  seem  inclined  for  war.  She  smiled,  murmur- 
ing, "Poor  girl,  you're  anemic,"  and  then,  her  eye 
lighting  on  Marie  Antoinette's  mirror: 

"Yes,  Miss  Harris'll  never  get  anywhere  till  she 
gets  some  color  into  her  voice.  It's  the  coldest  organ 
lever  heard.  Would  you  mind  if  I  took  that  mirror 
away?  I  have  a  new  lodger,  a  delightful  woman 
from  Philadelphia,  and  I've  no  mirror  for  her — I 
can't,  I  literally  can't,  buy  one  with  my  finances  the 
way  they  are.  I  suppose  after  this  failure  Miss  Har- 
ris'll  be  late  with  her  rent." 

Thus  Mrs.  Bushey.  When  she  had  gone — taking 
the  mirror — Miss  Bliss  lay  flat  before  the  fire  and 
reviled  her. 

Miss  Gorringe  came  next  with  the  green  satin 
dress.  It  was  upon  Miss  Gorringe  I  was  pinning  my 
hopes.  None  of  the  others  knew  anything.  Miss 
Gorringe,  lifting  out  the  dress  with  cold  and  careful 
hands,  looked  solemn : 

"No,  I  can't  say  it  was  a  success.  I'd  like  to  be- 
cause she's  certainly  one  of  the  most  lovely  people 
I've  ever  played  for,  but — "  She  depressed  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth  and  slowly  shook  her  head. 

I  sat  up  in  my  shawls  and  did  scream : 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  133 

"But  what?" 

Miss  Gorringe,  used  to  the  eccentricities  of  artists, 
was  unmoved  by  my  violence.  She  placed  the  dress 
carefully  over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"She  doesn't  get  over,"  she  said. 

"Get  over  what?" 

I  had  heard  this  cryptic  phrase  before,  but  didn't 
know  what  it  meant. 

"The  footlights — across,  into  the  audience.  And 
she  ought  to,  but  they  were  as  cold  as  frogs  till  Ber- 
wick woke  them  up  with  The  Three  Grenadiers,  He 
can  do  it.  He  hasn't  got  any  better  voice  or  method 
but,"  she  gave  a  little  ecstatic  gesture,  "tempera- 
ment—oh, my !" 

"Has  she  got  no  temperament  at  all?"  I  asked. 

"I've  never  played  for  anybody  who  had  less." 
Miss  Gorringe  held  up  the  green  scarf.  "Here's  the 
sash." 

"Not  a  bit  of  thrill,"  Miss  Bliss  chanted,  prone  be- 
fore the  fire. 

"Can't  a  person  get  temperament,  learn  it  in  some 
way?" 

Miss  Gorringe  pondered : 

"They  can  teach  them  roles,  hammer  it  into  them. 
When  a  person's  got  the  looks  she  has  they  some- 


134  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

times  do  it.  But  I  guess  theyVe  done  all  they  can 
for  her.  She's  been  with  Vignorol  for  two  years.  He 
wouldn't  have  taken  her  unless  he  thought  there  was 
something  in  it.  And  John  Masters  has  been  train- 
ing her  besides,  and  I've  heard  people  say  there's 
no  one  better  than  Masters  for  that.  You  see  they 
can  teach  her  how  to  walk  and  stand  and  make 
gestures,  but  they  can't  put  the  thing  into  her  head 
or  her  voice.  She  doesn't  seem  to  understand,  she 
doesn't  feel." 

I  was  silent.  She  did  feel,  I  knew  it,  I'd  seen  it. 
There  was  some  queer  lack  of  coordination  between 
her  power  to  feel  and  her  power  to  express. 

Miss  Gorringe  administered  the  coup  de  grace. 

"She  sang  the  duet  from  The  Valkyrie  as  if  she 
was  telling  Siegmund  to  put  on  his  hat  and  come  to 
supper." 

"It's  imagination,"  I  said. 

"It's  temperament,"  Miss  Gorringe  corrected. 
"And  without  it,  the  way  she  is,  she'd  better  go  in 
for  church  singing,  or  oratorio,  or  even  teaching." 

The  dusk  was  gathering  and  I  was  alone  when  she 
came  down.  She  threw  herself  into  the  wicker  chair 
beside  my  sofa.  Her  face  looked  thinner  and  two 
slight  lines  showed  round  her  mouth. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  135 

''Well?"  I  said,  investing  my  voice  with  a  fic- 
titious lightness.    "Where  have  you  been  all  day?" 

"Fm  tired  or  I'd  have  been  down  earlier.  Have 
you  seen  the  others?" 

With  her  deadly  directness  she  had  gone  straight 
to  the  point  I  dreaded. 

"Yes,  they've  been  in." 

"Did  they  like  it?" 

One  of  the  most  formidable  things  about  this 
woman  is  the  way  she  keeps  placing  you  in  positions 
where  you  must  either  lie  and  lose  your  self-respect 
or  tell  the  truth  and  incur  her  sudden  and  alarming 
anger.  I  was  not  afraid  of  that  now,  but  I  couldn't 
hurt  her.  I  tried  to  find  a  sentence  that  would  be 
as  truthful  and  painless  as  the  circumstances  per- 
mitted.    The  search  took  a  moment. 

"They  didn't,"  she  answered  for  me. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  window  and  drummed 
on  the  chair-arm  with  her  fingers,  then  said  de- 
fiantly : 

"They  don't  know  anything." 

"Of  course  they  don't,"  I  cried.  "An  Italian 
count,  an  artist,  a  model,  a  woman  who  rents  floors." 

Her  eye  fell  on  the  green  dress. 

"Miss  Gorringe  has  been  here." 


136  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  nodded. 

"What  did  ^A^  say?" 

I  got  cold  under  my  wrappings.  Had  I  the  cour- 
age to  tell  her?  She  looked  at  me  and  gave  a  slight 
wry  smile. 

"Did  she  tell  you  that  Berwick  got  away  with  it?" 

"Some  one  did.  I  think  it  was  Mr.  Hazard,  but 
he*s  a  painter  and — '* 

She  interrupted  roughly. 

"That's  nothing — a  big  bawling  voice  singing 
popular  songs.  If  they'd  let  me  sing  Oh,  Promise 
Me  Vd  have  had  the  whole  house." 

For  the  first  time  in  my  experience  of  her  I  saw- 
she  was  not  open  with  herself.    I  knew  that  she  had 
realized  her  failure  and  refused  to  admit  it.    She 
leaned  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  frowning, 
haggard  and  miserable. 

"I'll  get  the  notices  to-morrow,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice. 

It  was  horribly  pitiful.  There  would  be  no 
friendly  deception  about  the  notices. 

"Vignorol's  arranged  for  several  good  men  to  go. 
He  wanted  their  opinions.  They'll  give  me  a  fine 
notice  on  The  Valkyrie  duet." 

"Did  that  go  well?"  I  asked  just  for  something  to 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  137 

"Oh,  splendidly,"  she  answered,  without  looking 
up.   "It's  one  of  the  things  I  do  best." 

The  room  was  getting  dim  and  I  was  thankful  for 
it.  The  dusk  hid  the  drooping  and  discouraged  face, 
but  it  could  not  shut  out  the  voice  with  its  desperate 
pretense.    It  was  worse  than  the  face. 

"Well,"  she  said  suddenly,  straightening  up,  "I'll 
see  Masters  to-morrow.  He's  coming  to  bring  me 
the  notices." 

There  was  fear  in  the  voice.  I  knew  what  the  in- 
terview with  Masters  would  be,  and  she  knew,  too. 
In  a  moment  of  insight  I  saw  that  she  had  been 
fighting  against  her  dread  all  day,  had  come  down 
to  me  for  courage,  was  trying  now  to  drav/  it  from 
my  chill  and  depressing  presence.  It  was  like  a 
child  afraid  of  the  dark,  hanging  about  in  terror  and 
unwilling  to  voice  its  alarm. 

I  sat  up,  throwing  off  my  wraps  and  laid  my  hand 
on  hers. 

"Lizzie,  don't  mind  what  he  says." 

Her  hand  was  cold  under  mine. 

"He  knows,"  she  answered  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"he  knows" 

"I  can  get  backers  for  you" — it  was  rash,  but  I 
know  how  to  manage  Betty — "better  than  he  ever 
was,  the  best  kind  of  backers." 


138  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

She  jerked  her  hand  away  and  glared  at  me. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  Do  you  think  he's 
going  to  give  me  up  ?  Why,  you  must  be  crazy."  She 
jumped  to  her  feet  looking  down  at  me  with  a  face 
of  savage  anger.  "Do  you  think  I  haven't  made 
good?  Have  they,"  with  a  violent  gesture  to  the 
door,  "told  you  so?  They're  fools,  idiots,  imbeciles. 
Masters  give  me  up — ah — "  She  turned  away  and 
then  back.  "Why  he's  never  had  any  one  with  such 
promise  as  I  have.  He's  banking  on  me.  I'm  going 
to  bring  him  to  the  top.  He  borrowed  the  money  to 
send  me  to  Vignorol.  Throw  me  down  now,  just 
when  Tm  getting  there,  just  when  I'm  proving  he 
was  right?  Oh,  I  can't  talk  to  you.  You've  no  sense. 
You're  as  big  a  fool  as  all  the  rest." 

And  she  rushed  out  of  the  room,  banging  the  door 
till  the  whole  apartment  shook. 

I  lay  thinking  about  it  till  Emma  came  to  get  me 
my  supper.  She  was  right  in  one  thing — I  was  a 
fool.  In  my  blundering  attempt  at  encouragement 
I  had  gone  straight  to  the  heart  of  her  fear,  dragged 
it  out  into  the  light,  held  up  in  front  of  her  the 
thing  she  was  trying  not  to  see — that  Masters  would 
give  her  up.  Fool — it  was  a  mild  name  for  me.  And 
poor  Lizzie — ^tragic  Bonaventura! 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  139 

It's  night  again  and  I  am  dressed  in  my  best  with 
a  fur  cloak  on  to  keep  off  the  chill.  I've  got  to  write, 
not  a  sudden  visitation  of  the  Muse,  but  to  ease  my 
mind.  If  you  haven't  got  a  sympathetic  pair  of  ears 
to  pour  your  troubles  into,  pouring  them  out  on  paper 
is  the  next  best  thing. 

It's  two  days  since  I  have  seen  Lizzie.  Yesterday 
I  was  in  my  room  all  day  nursing  my  cold  and  ex- 
pecting her,  but  she  didn't  come.  Neither  did  she 
to-day,  and  all  I  could  surmise  was  that  she  was 
angry  with  me  for  being  a  fool.  As  I  feel  I  was 
one  and  yet  don't  like  to  hear  it  from  other  people, 
I  made  no  effort  to  get  into  communication  with  her. 

This  evening  I  was  well  enough  to  go  out  in  a 
cab  with  all  my  furs  and  a  foot  warmer,  to  dine  with 
Roger's  widowed  sister,  Mrs.  Ashworth.  I  was  a 
good  deal  fluttered  over  the  dinner,  guessed  why  it 
had  been  arranged.  It  was  a  small  affair,  the  Fer- 
gusons, Roger  and  I.  Preceded  by  a  call  from  Mrs. 
Ashworth,  it  had  a  meaningful  aspect,  a  delicate 
suggestion  of  welcoming  me  into  the  family.  I  blush 
as  I  write  it.  I  don't  know  why  I  should,  or  why 
love  and  marriage  are  matters  surrounded  by  self- 
consciousness  and  shame.  Who  was  it  explained  the 
embarrassment  of  lovers,  their  tendency  to   hide 


I40  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

themselves  in  corners,  as  an  instinctive  sense  of  guilt 
at  the  prospect  of  bringing  children  into  a  miserable 
world?  I  think  it  was  Schopenhauer.  Sounds  like 
him — cross-grained  old  misanthrope. 

Mrs.  Ashworth  is  Roger's  only  near  relation  and 
he  regards  her  as  the  choicest  flower  of  woman- 
hood. I  don't  wonder.  In  her  way  she  is  a  finished 
product,  no  raw  edges,  no  loose  ends.  Everything 
is  in  harmony — her  thin  faintly-lined  face,  her 
silky  white  hair,  her  pale  hands  with  slightly  promi- 
nent veins,  her  voice  with  its  gentle  modulations. 
Nothing  cheap  or  second  rate  could  exist  near  her. 
She  wouldn't  stamp  them  out — I  can't  imagine  her 
stamping — they  would  simply  -wither  in  the  rarified 
atmosphere.  Her  friends  are  like  herself,  her  house 
is  like  herself.  When  I  go  there  I  feel  strident  and 
coarse.  As  I  enter  the  portal  I  instinctively  tune 
my  key  lower,  feel  my  high  lights  fading,  undergo 
a  refining  and  subduing  process  as  if  a  chromo  were 
being  transmuted  into  a  Bartolozzi  engraving. 

As  my  cab  crawled  down-town — I  need  hardly 
say  Mrs.  Ashworth  lives  in  a  house  on  lower  Fifth 
Avenue,  built  by  her  father — I  uneasily  wondered 
if  the  Bohemian  atmosphere  in  which  I  dwelt  had 
left  any  marks  upon  me.    I  tried  to  obliterate  them 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  141 

and  made  mental  notes  of  things  I  mustn't  mention. 
Memories  of  Miss  Bliss'  golden  corset  string  rose  un- 
easily, and  Lizzie  Harris,  and  oh,  Mr.  Masters!  I 
ended  by  achieving  a  sense  of  grievance  against  Mrs. 
Ashworth.  No  one  had  any  right  to  be  so  refined. 
It  was  all  very  well  if  you  inherited  a  social  circle 
and  large  means,  but —  The  cab  drew  up  with  a 
jolt  and  I  alighted.  All  unseemly  exuberance  died 
as  the  light  from  the  door  fell  on  me.  I  spoke  so 
softly  the  driver  had  difficulty  in  hearing  my  order 
and  when  I  walked  up  the  steps  I  minced  daintily. 

But  it  was  a  delightful  dinner.  Harry  and  I  were 
on  one  side,  Betty  and  Roger  on  the  other.  At  the 
foot  of  the  table  was  Mrs.  Ashworth's  son,  Roger 
Clements  Ashworth,  a  charming  boy  still  at  college. 
It  was  all  perfectly  done,  nothing  showy,  nothing  in 
the  fashion.  Betty's  pearls  looked  a  good  deal  too 
large  beside  the  modest  string  that  Mrs.  Ashworth 
wore,  which  was  given  to  her  great,  great  grand- 
mother by  Admiral  Rochambeau.  The  dining-room 
walls  were  lined  with  portraits,  with  over  the  fire- 
place, that  foundation  stone  of  the  family's  glory, 
Roger  Clements,  "The  Signer." 

I  thought  of  my  apartment  and  my  late  associates 
and  felt  that  I  was  leading  a  double  life. 


142  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

When  I  came  home  the  house  was  very  silent. 
Mounting  the  dim  dirty  stairs  with  the  smell  of  dead 
dinners  caught  in  the  corners,  I  wondered  how  Mrs. 
Ashworth  could  countenance  me.  But  after  all,  it 
was  part  of  her  fineness  that  she  had  no  quarrel  with 
the  obscure  and  lowly.  If  she  could  not  broaden  the 
walls  of  her  world- — and  you  had  only  to  talk  to  her 
ten  minutes  to  see  that  she  couldn't — within  those 
walls  all  was  choice  and  lovely.  I  would  have  to  live 
up  to  it,  that  was  all. 

I  had  got  that  far  when  I  heard  a  heavy  step  and 
Mr.  Masters  loomed  up  on  the  flight  above.  The 
stairs  are  very  narrow  and  I  looked  up  smiling,  ex- 
pecting him  to  retreat.  He  came  on,  however,  not 
returning  my  smile,  staring  straight  before  him  with 
an  immovable,  brooding  glance.  I  can't  say  he 
iiidn't  see  me,  but  he  had  the  air  of  being  so  pre- 
occupied that  what  his  eye  lighted  on  did  not  pene- 
trate to  his  brain.  As  at  our  first  meeting  I  received 
an  impression  of  brutal  strength,  his  broad  shoulders 
seeming  to  push  the  walls  back,  his  flat-topped  head 
upheld  on  a  neck  like  a  gladiator.  I  intended  asking 
him  about  the  concert  and  the  notices,  but  his  look 
froze  me,  and  I  backed  against  the  wall  for  him  to 
pass. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  143 

As  he  brushed  by  he  growled  a  word  of  greet- 
ing. He  was  in  the  hall  below  when  I  broke  out  of 
the  consternation  created  by  his  manner,  leaned 
over  the  rail  and  called  down : 

"Mr.  Masters,  how  is  Miss  Harris?" 

"All  right,"  he  muttered  without  stopping  or 
looking  up  and  went  on  down  the  lower  flight  to  the 
street 

They  had  had  the  interview. 

The  house  was  as  silent  as  a  tomb.  I  stole  to  the 
foot  of  the  upper  flight,  looked  up  and  listened.  Not 
a  sound.  The  rustling  of  my  dress  as  I  moved  star- 
tled me.  What  had  he  said  to  her  ?  I  couldn't  read 
his  face — ^but  his  manner!  I  wavered  and  waited, 
the  street  noises  coming  muffled  through  the  intense 
stillness.  Then  I  decided  Fd  not  intrude  upon  her. 
and  came  in  here.  Whatever  happened  she'll  tell  me 
in  her  own  good  time,  and  the  quietness  up  there  is 
reassuring.  Her  anger  is  apt  to  take  noisy  forms. 
If  she  had  been  throwing  oranges  out  of  the  window 
I  would  have  heard  her.  But  I  do  wish  I  might  have 
seen  her  to-night. 


X 

IDIDNT  sleep  well  that  night.  The  memory  of 
Mr.  Masters*  set  sullen  face  kept  me  wakeful. 
At  four  I  got  up,  lit  the  light  and  tried  to  read 
Kidd's  Social  Evolution,  Through  the  ceiling  I 
could  hear  Mr.  Hamilton's  subdued  snoring  on  the 
floor  above.  It  seemed  like  the  deep  and  labored 
breathing  of  that  submerged  world  whose  upward 
struggle  I  was  following  through  Mr.  Kidd's  illumi- 
nating page. 

After  breakfast,  when  no  sign  or  word  had  come 
from  Lizzie,  I  decided  to  stay  in  till  I  heard  from 
her.  I  dawdled  through  the  morning  and  when 
Emma  was  cleaning  up  went  out  on  the  landing  and 
listened.  The  upper  floors  were  wrapt  in  quiet.  I 
stole  up  a  flight  and  a  half  and  looked  at  her  door — 
tight  shut  and  not  a  sound.  I  went  down  again  wor- 
ried, though  it  was  possible  she  had  gone  out  and  I 
not  heard  her.  After  lunch  I  opened  the  register 
and  listened — complete  silence.  During  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  I  sat  waiting  for  her  footfall.  Dusk 
came  and  no  woman  had  mounted  the  stairs.    At 

144 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  145 

seven  a  tap  came  at  my  door  and  Count  Delcati 
pushed  it  open. 

The  count  brought  letters  from  the  Italian  aris- 
tocracy to  its  New  York  imitation  and  goes  to  enter- 
tainments that  the  rest  of  us  read  of  in  the  papers. 
He  was  arrayed  for  festival  and  looked  like  an  up- 
to-date  French  poster,  a  high-shouldered  black  fig- 
ure with  slender  arms  slightly  bowed  out  at  the 
elbows.  His  collar  was  very  stiff,  his  shirt  bosom  a 
clear  expanse  of  thick  smooth  white.  He  wore  his 
silk  hat  back  from  his  forehead,  and  his  youthful  yet 
sophisticated  face,  with  its  intense  black  eyes  and 
dash  of  dark  mustache,  might  have  been  looking  at 
me  from  the  walls  of  the  Salon  Independent. 

He  removed  his  hat,  and  standing  in  the  door- 
way, said: 

*'Have  you  seen  her  to-day?" 

"No,"  I  answered.     "Have  you?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  think  she  must  be  away.  When  I  came  Home  at 
six  I  went  up  there  and  knocked,  but  there  was  no 
answer." 

There  was  nothing  In  this  to  increase  my  uneasi- 
ness. She  came  and  went  at  all  hours,  often  taking 
her  dinner  at  what  she  called  "little  joints"  in  the 


146  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

lower  reaches  of  the  city.  Nevertheless  my  uneasi- 
ness did  increase,  gripped  hold  of  me  as  I  looked  at 
the  young  man's  gravely  attentive  face. 

"Have  you  seen  her  since  the  concert?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  the  day  after,  when  you  were  all  in  here." 

"She  hadn't  seen  the  notices  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

He  leaned  against  the  door-post  and  gazed  at  his 
patent  leather  shoes.  As  if  with  reluctance  he  said 
slowly : 

"I  have." 

"What  were  they  like?" 

"Rotten." 

He  pronounced  the  word  with  the  "r"  strangled 
yet  protesting,  as  if  he  had  rolled  his  tongue  round  it, 
torn  it  from  its  place  and  put  it  away  somewhere  in 
the  recesses  of  his  throat. 

"Oh,  poor  girl !"  I  moaned. 

"That's  why  I  went  up  there.  She  must  have  seen 
them  and  I  wished  to  assure  her  they  were  lies." 

"Did  they  say  anything  very  awful?" 

He  shrugged. 

"They  spoke  of  her  beauty— one  said  she  had  a 
good  mezzo  voice.  But  they  were  not  kind  to  her,  to 
Mr.  Berwick,  very" 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  147 

I  said  nothing,  sunk  in  gloom. 

The  count  picked  up  his  fur-lined  coat  from  the 
stair  rail,  and  shook  himself  into  it. 

"I  should  wait  to  go  to  her  when  she  comes  in, 
but  this  meeserable  dinner,  where  I  sit  beside  young 
girls  who  know  nothing  and  married  ladies  who 
know  too  much — ^no  mystery,  no  allure.  But  I  must 
go — ^perhaps  you? — "  He  looked  at  me  tentatively 
over  his  fur  collar. 

"ril  go  up  as  soon  as  she  comes  in,"  I  answered. 
"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  her  be  assured  I'll 
do  it" 

"You  are  a  sweet  lady,"  said  the  count  and  de- 
parted. 

After  that  I  sat  with  the  door  open  a  crack  waiting 
and  listening.  The  hours  ticked  by.  I  heard  Mr. 
Hamilton's  step  on  the  street  stairs,  a  knock  at  the 
Westerner's  door,  and  as  it  opened  to  him,  a  joyous 
clamor  of  greeting  in  which  Miss  Bliss'  little  treble 
piped  shrilly.  Hazard  was  painting  her  and  she 
spent  most  of  her  evenings  in  there  with  them.  It 
was  a  good  thing,  they  were  decent  fellows  and  their 
room  was  properly  heated. 

At  intervals  the  sounds  of  their  mirth  came  from 
below.    The  rest  of  the  house  was  dumb.    At  eleven 


148  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  could  stand  it  no  more  and  went  up.  If  she  wasn't 
there  I  could  light  up  the  place  for  her — she  rarely 
locked  her  door — and  have  it  bright  and  warm. 

It  was  dimly  lighted  and  very  still  on  the  top  floor, 
the  gas-jet  tipping  the  burner  in  a  small  pale  point 
of  light.  I  knocked  and  got  no  answer,  then  opened 
the  door  and  went  in.  The  room  was  dark,  the  win- 
dow opposite  a  faint  blue  square.  In  the  draft 
made  by  the  opening  door  the  gas  shot  up  as  if 
frightened,  then  sunk  down,  sending  its  thin  gleam 
over  the  threshold.  As  I  moved  I  bumped  into  the 
table  and  heard  a  thumping  of  something  falling  on 
the  floor.  I  saw  afterward  it  was  oranges.  I  groped 
for  matches,  lighted  the  gas  and  looked  about,  then 
gave  a  jump  and  a  startled  exclamation.  Lizzie 
Harris  was  lying  on  the  sofa. 

*'Lizzie,"  I  cried  sharply,  angry  from  my  fright, 
"why  didn't  you  say  you  were  there  ?" 

She  made  no  sound  or  movement  and  seized  by  a 
wild  fear,  I  ran  to  her.  At  the  first  glance  I  thought 
she  was  dead.  She  was  as  white  as  a  china  plate, 
lying  flat  on  her  back  with  her  eyes  shut,  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  waist.  I  touched  one  of  them  and 
knew  by  the  warmth  she  was  alive.  I  clutched  it, 
shaking  it  and  crying: 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  149 

"Lizzie,  what's  the  matter?   Are  you  ill?" 

She  tried  to  withdraw  it  and  turned  her  face  away. 
The  movement  was  feeble,  suggesting  an  ebbing 
vitality.  I  thought  of  suicide,  and  in  a  panic  looked 
about  for  glasses  and  vials.  There  was  nothing  of 
the  kind  near  her.  In  my  lightning  survey  I  saw  a 
scattering  of  newspaper  cuttings  on  the  table  among 
the  rest  of  the  oranges. 

"Have  you  taken  anything,  medicine,  poison?"  I 
cried  in  my  terror. 

"No,"  she  whispered.  "Go  away.    Let  me  alone.'* 

I  was  sorry  for  her,  but  I  was  also  angry.  She 
had  g^ven  me  a  horrible  fright.  Failure  and  criti- 
cism were  hard  to  bear,  but  there  was  no  sense  tak- 
ing them  this  way. 

"What  is  the  matter  then?  What's  happened  to 
make  you  like  this  ?" 

"Let  me  alone,"  she  repeated,  and  lifting  one 
hand,  held  it  palm  upward  over  her  face. 

That  something  was  wrong  was  indisputable,  but 
I  couldn't  do  anything  till  I  knew  what  it  was.  I 
put  my  fingers  on  the  hand  over  her  face  and  felt 
for  her  pulse.  I  don't  know  why,  for  I  haven't  the 
least  idea  how  a  pulse  ought  to  beat.  As  it  was  I 
couldn't  find  any  beat  at  all  and  dropped  her  hand. 


ISO  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

"ril  have  to  get  a  doctor,  I'll  call  the  man  in  the 
boarding  house  opposite." 

"Don't,"  she  said  in  a  voice  which,  for  the  first 
time,  showed  a  note  of  life.  "If  you  bring  a  doctor 
here  I'll  go  out  in  the  street  as  I  am." 

She  was  in  the  blue  kimono.  I  didn't  know  wheth- 
er she  had  strength  enough  to  move,  but  if  she  had  I 
knew  that  she  would  do  as  she  said  and  the  night 
was  freezing. 

"I  won't  call  the  doctor  if  you'll  tell  me  what's 
happened  to  you  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  she  said,  and  raising  the  hand  from 
her  face  caught  at  my  skirt.  I  bent  down  for  her 
voice  was  very  low,  hardly  more  than  a  whisper. 

"Masters  has  left  me." 

"Left  you,"  I  echoed,  bewildered.  "He  was  here 
last  night.    I  saw  him." 

Her  eyes  held  mine. 

"Left  me  for  good,"  she  whispered,  "forever." 

Any  words  that  I  might  have  had  ready  to  brace 
up  a  discouraged  spirit  died  away. 

"What — what  do  you  mean?"  I  faltered. 

"He  and  I  were  lovers — lived  together — ^you  must 
have  known  it.  He  got  tired  of  me — sick  of  me — ^he 
told  me  so  himself — those  very  words.    He  said  he 


'Masters  has  left  me" 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  .151 

was  done  with  it  all,  the  singing  and  me."  She 
turned  her  head  away  and  looked  at  the  wall.  "I've 
been  here  ever  since.    I  don't  know  how  long." 

I  stood  without  moving,  looking  at  her,  and  she 
seemed  as  dead  to  my  presence  as  if  she  had  really 
been  the  corpse  I  at  first  thought  her.  Presently  I 
found  myself  putting  a  rug  over  her,  settling  it  with 
careful  hands  as  if  it  occupied  my  entire  thoughts. 

I  do  not  exactly  know  what  did  occupy  them. 
A  sort  of  sick  disgust  permeated  me,  a  deep  over- 
whelming disgust  of  life.  Everything  was  vile,  the 
world,  the  people  in  it,  the  sordid  dirt  of  their  lives. 
I  almost  wished  that  I  might  die  to  be  out  of  it  all. 

Then  I  sat  down  beside  her.  She  lay  turned  to 
the  wall,  with  the  light  of  the  one  burner  making 
long  shadows  in  the  folds  of  the  rug.  Her  neck  and 
cheek  had  the  hard  whiteness  of  marble,  her  hair, 
like  a  piece  of  black  cloth,  laid  along  them.  The 
sickening  feeling  of  repugnance  persisted,  stronger 
than  any  pity  for  her.  I  suppose  it  was  the  long 
reach  of  tradition,  an  inherited  point  of  view,  trans- 
mitted by  those  prim  and  buckramed  ladies  on  my 
dining-room  wall,  and  also  perhaps  that  I  had  never 
known  a  woman,  well,  as  a  friend,  who  had  done 
what  Lizzie  Harris  had  done.    It  was  the  first  time 


152  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

in  my  life,  which  had  moved  so  precisely  in  its  pre- 
scribed groove,  that  I  had  ever  taken  to  my  heart, 
believed  in,  grieved  over,  loved  and  trusted  a  woman 
thus  stained  and  fallen. 

I  will  also  add,  for  I  am  truthful  with  myself, 
that  when  I  got  up  and  went  to  her,  all  inclination 
to  touch  her,  to  console  and  comfort  her,  was  gone. 
For  those  first  few  moments  she  was  physically  ob- 
jectionable to  me,  as  if  she  might  have  been  covered 
with  dirt.  Yet  I  felt  that  I  must  look  after  her,  had 
what  I  suppose  you  would  call  a  sense  of  duty  where 
she  was  concerned.  I  have  always  hated  the  phrase; 
to  me  it  signifies  a  dry  sterile  thing,  and  it  held  me 
there  because  I  would  have  been  uncomfortable  if  I 
had  gone.  Is  it  the  training  women  get  in  their 
youth  that  makes  them  like  this,  makes  them  only 
give  their  best  when  the  object  is  worthy,  as  we  ask 
only  the  people  to  dinner  who  can  give  us  a  good 
dinner  back?  I  heard  the  sense  of  duty  chill  in  my 
voice  as  I  spoke  to  her. 

''Have  you  had  anything  to  eat  since — that  is, 
to-day ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  I  bent  farther  over  and 
looked  at  the  profile  with  the  eyes  closed.  They 
were  sunken,  as  if  by  days  of  pain.     I  have  seen  a 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  153 

good  many  sick  people  in  my  life,  but  I  had  never 
seen  any  one  so  changed  in  so  short  a  time.  I  gazed 
down  at  her  and  the  appeal  of  that  marred  and 
anguished  face  suddenly  broke  through  everything, 
stabbed  down  through  the  world's  armor  into  the 
human  core.  I  tried  to  seize  hold  of  her,  to  make 
my  hands  tell  her,  and  cried  out  in  the  poor  words 
that  are  our  best: 

"Oh,  Lizzie,  I'm  so  sorry,  I'm  so  sorry  for  you." 

It  was  like  taking  hold  of  a  dead  body.  Her  arm 
fell  from  my  hand  an  inert  weight.  Condemnation 
or  condonement  were  all  the  same  to  her. 

What  was  I  to  do?  The  clock  marked  midnight. 
The  joyful  sounds  from  below  had  ceased.  I  did 
not  like  to  rouse  the  others,  for,  as  far  as  I  could 
see,  she  was  in  no  immediate  danger.  She  appeared 
to  be  in  a  condition  of  collapse,  and  I  had  never 
heard  of  any  one  dying  of  that.  It  was  twenty-four 
hours  since  I  had  seen  Masters  on  the  stairs.  She 
had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  then.  Food  was  the 
best  thing  and  I  went  into  the  kitchen  to  get  some. 

The  top  floor  has  what  Miss  Bliss  calls  "the  bulge" 
on  all  others  by  having  a  small  but  complete  kitchen. 
The  gaslight  showed  it  in  a  state  of  chaos,  piles  of 
plates  waiting  to  be  washed,  the  ice-box  with  opened 


154  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

door  and  a  milk  bottle  overturned,  some  linen  lying 
swathed  and  sodden  over  the  edge  of  the  laundry 
tub.  I  made  a  brew  of  tea  and  brought  it  to  her,  but 
one  might  as  well  have  tried  to  make  a  statue  drink. 
In  answer  to  my  pleadings  she  turned  completely  to 
the  wall,  moving  one  hand  to  the  top  of  her  head 
where  it  lay  outstretched  with  spread  fingers.  In 
the  faintly  lighted  room,  in  the  creeping  cold  of  a 
December  midnight,  that  speechless  woman  with  her 
open  hand  resting  on  her  head,  was  the  most  tragic 
figure  I  have  ever  seen. 

I  took  the  tea  back  to  the  kitchen  and  washed  the 
plates.  Also  I  hunted  over  the  place  for  any  means 
of  self-destruction  that  might  be  there.  There  were 
vials  in  the  medicine  closet  that  I  stood  in  a  row  and 
inspected,  emptying  those  I  wasn't  sure  about  into 
the  sink.  As  I  worked  I  thought,  sometimes  pur- 
suing a  consecutive  series  of  ideas,  sometimes  in  dis- 
connected jumps.  It  was  revolutionary  thinking, 
casting  out  old  ideals,  installing  new  ones.  I  was 
outside  the  limits  within  which  I  had  heretofore 
ranged,  was  looking  beyond  the  familiar  horizon. 
In  that  untidy  kitchen,  sniffing  at  medicine  bottles,  I 
had  glimpses  far  beyond  the  paths  where  I  had  left 
my  little  trail  of  footprints. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  155 

I  didn't  know  why  she  had  given  herself  to  Mas- 
ters. Strange  as  it  may  sound,  it  did  not  then  seem 
to  me  to  matter.  It  was  her  affair,  concern  for  her 
conscience,  not  mine.  What  was  my  concern  was  that 
I  could  not  give  my  love  and  take  it  back.  It  went 
deeper  than  her  passions  and  her  weaknesses.  It 
went  below  the  surface  of  life,  underlay  the  compli- 
cated web  of  conduct  and  action.  It  was  the  one 
thing  that  was  sure  amid  the  welter  of  shock  and 
amaze. 

And  I  understood  Masters,  was  suddenly  shifted 
into  his  place  and  saw  his  side.  He  had  tried  to 
make  her  understand  and  she  wouldn't,  then  on  the 
straining  tie  that  held  them  had  dealt  a  savage  blow, 
brought  an  impossible  situation  to  the  only  possible 
end.  I  hated  him,  if  she  had  been  nothing  to  me  I 
would  have  hated  him.  Shaking  a  bottle  of  collodion 
over  the  sink  I  muttered  execrations  on  him,  and  as 
I  muttered  knew  that  I  admired  the  brutal  courage 
that  had  set  them  both  free. 

The  dawn  found  me  sitting  by  her  frozen  in  mind 
and  body.  I  had  had  time  to  think  of  what  I  should 
say  to  all  inquiries:  the  failure  of  the  concert,  the 
blow  to  her  hopes,  had  prostrated  her.  It  was  half 
true  and  quite  plausible. 


156  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

When  the  light  was  bright  and  the  street  awake 
I  went  out  into  the  hall  and  waited.  Miss  Bliss  was 
the  first  person  I  caught,  coming  up  from  the  street 
door  with  a  milk  bottle.  Her  little  face  was  full  of 
sleep  that  dispersed  under  my  urgent  murmurings. 
She  stepped  inside  the  door  and  hailed  tentatively ; 

"Hullo,  Miss  Harris." 

There  was  no  answer  and  she  ventured  less  buoy- 
antly : 

"Don't  you  feel  good,  Miss  Harris?" 

The  lack  of  response  scared  her,  yet  she  stood  fas- 
cinated like  the  street  gamin  eying  the  victim  of  an 
accident.  She  had  seen  enough  to  do  what  I  wanted, 
and  I  took  her  by  the  arm  and  pulled  her  into  the 
hall. 

"She  looks  like  she  was  dead,"  she  whispered, 
awed.  "Would  you  think  a  big  husky  woman  like 
that  would  take  things  so  hard?" 

I  had  prepared  my  lesson  in  the  small  hours  and 
answered  glibly : 

"She's  not  half  so  strong  as  you  think  and  very 
sensitive,  morbidly  sensitive." 

"Um,"  said  Miss  Bliss,  "poor  thing!  I  don't  see 
how  if  she  was  so  sensitive,  she  could  have  stood 
that  man  Masters  around  so  much." 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  157 

She  went  down  to  dress  and  presently  the  news 
percolated  through  the  house.  There  was  an  opening 
and  shutting  of  doors  and  whisperings  on  the  top 
flight.  Everybody  stole  up  and  offered  help  except 
the  count,  who  rose  late  to  the  summons  of  an  alarm 
clock.  Mr.  Hazard  went  across  the  street  for  the 
doctor,  met  Mrs.  Bushey  on  her  way  to  physical 
culture  and  sent  her  in. 

I  met  her  in  the  third-floor  hall  and  we  talked, 
sitting  on  the  banister.  The  count's  alarm  clock  had 
evidently  done  its  work,  for  he  eyed  us  through  the 
crack  of  his  door. 

**How  dreadful — terribly  unfortunate,'*  Mrs. 
Bushey  muttered,  then,  looking  about,  caught  the 
count's  eye  at  the  crack:  "Good  morning.  Count 
Delcati.  You're  up  early." 

The  count  responded,  the  gleaming  eye  large  and 
unwinking  as  if  made  of  glass. 

Mrs.  Bushey's  glance  returned  to  me.  The  smile 
called  forth  by  the  greeting  of  the  star  lodger  died 
away. 

"If  her  concert  was  such  a  failure  and  she's  sick, 
how  is  she  going  to  live?" 

I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  It  added  a  complication 
to  the  already  complex  situation. 


158  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

*'0h,  she  must  have  something,"  I  said  with  a 
vaguely  reassuringly  air.  "She  hasn't  been  making 
money  but — " 

"Do  you  know  anything  positive  of  her  financial 
position?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Bushey. 

It  was  hard  to  be  vague  on  any  subject  with  Mrs. 
Bushey,  on  the  subject  of  finances  impossible.  She 
listened  to  a  few  soothing  sentences  then  said 
grimly : 

"I  see  you  don't  really  know  anything  about  it. 
Please  try  and  find  out.  Of  course  I'm  one  of  the 
most  kind-hearted  people  in  the  world,  but" — she 
held  her  physical  culture  manuals  in  the  grip  of  one 
elbow  and  extended  her  hands — "one  must  live.  I 
can't  be  late  with  my  rent  whatever  my  lodgers 
can  be." 

The  count's  voice  issued  unexpectedly  through 
the  crack : 

"I  am  late  two  times  now  and  I  still  stay." 

Mrs.  Bushey  smiled  at  the  eye. 

"Of  course,  Count  Delcati,  but  you're  different. 
I  know  all  about  you.  But  Miss  Harris — a  singer 
who  can't  make  good.  They're  notoriously  bad  pay." 
She  turned  sharply  on  me.  "What  seems  to  be  the 
matter  with  her  ?" 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  159 

"Collapse,"  I  said  promptly.  "Complete  collapse 
and  prostration." 

Mrs.  Bushey  hitched  the  books  into  her  armpit 
and  patted  them  in  with  her  muff. 

'Those  are  only  words.  I'm  glad  Mr.  Hazard's 
gone  for  the  doctor."  She  turned  and  moved  toward 
the  stair-head.  "And  if  it's  anything  contagious  she 
must  go  at  once.  Don't  keep  her  here  five  minutes. 
The  doctor'll  know  where  to  send  her."  She  began 
the  descent.  "If  I'd  only  myself  to  think  of  I'd  let 
her  stay  if  it  was  the  bubonic  plague.  But  I  won't 
expose  the  rest  of  you  to  any  danger."  She  de- 
scended the  next  flight  and  her  voice  grew  fainter : 
"I'm  only  thinking  of  you,  my  lodgers  are  always 
my  first  consideration.  If  any  of  you  got  anything 
I'd  never  forgive  myself."  She  reached  the  last 
flight.  "I  wouldn't  expose  one  of  you  to  contagion  if 
I  never  made  a  dollar  or  rented  a  room.  That's  the 
way  I  am.  I  know  It's  foolish — ^you  needn't  tell  me 
so,  but — "  The  street  door  shut  on  her. 

The  doctor  came  with  speed  and  an  air  of  purpose. 
At  last  he  had  somewhere  to  go  when  he  ran  down 
the  stairs  with  his  bag,  and  It  was  difficult  for  him  to 
conceal  his  exhilaration.  He  was  young,  firm  and 
businesslike,  examined  Lizzie,  asked  questions  and 


l6o  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

said  it  was  "shock".  He  was  very  anxious  to  find  out 
what  had  "precipitated  the  condition,"  even  read  the 
notices,  and  then  sat  with  his  chin  in  his  hand  look- 
ing at  the  patient  and  frowning. 

Out  in  the  hall  I  enlarged  on  her  high-strung  or- 
ganization and  he  listened,  fixing  me  with  a  search- 
ing gaze  that  did  not  conceal  the  fact  that  he  was 
puzzled.  We  whispered  on  the  landing  over  nurs- 
ing, food  and  the  etceteras  of  illness,  then  branched 
into  shocks  and  their  causes  till  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered he  had  to  be  in  a  hurry,  snatched  up  his  bag 
and  darted  away. 

That  was  yesterday.  To-night  I  have  brought  up 
my  writing  things  and  while  I  watch  am  scratching 
this  off  at  the  desk  where,  not  so  long  ago,  I  found 
her  choosing  her  stage  name.  Poor  Lizzie — is  there 
a  woman  who  would  refuse  her  pity? 

I  can  run  over  the  names  of  all  those  I  know  and 
I  don't  think  there's  one,  who,  if  she  could  look 
through  the  sin  at  the  sinner,  would  entirely  con- 
demn. The  worst  of  it  is  they  all  stop  short  at  the 
sin.  It  hides  the  personality  behind  it.  I  know  if  I 
talked  to  Betty  this  way  she'd  say  I  was  a  silly 
sentimentalist  with  no  knowledge  of  life,  for  even 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  i6i 

my  generous  Betty  wouldn't  see  over  the  sin.  There's 
something  wrong  with  the  way  women  appraise 
*'the  values"  in  these  matters ;  actions  don't  stand  in 
the  proper  relations  to  character  and  intentions. 
We're  all  either  sheep  or  goats.  Everything  that 
makes  our  view-point,  books,  plays,  precedent,  pub- 
lic opinion,  will  have  it  that  we're  sheep  or  goats, 
and  though  we  can  do  a  good  many  bad  things  and 
remain  pure  spotless  sheep,  there's  just  one  thing 
that  if  we  do  do,  puts  us  forever  in  the  corral  with 
the  goats. 

But,  oh — I  groan  as  I  write  it — if  it  only  hadn't 
been  Masters !  That  brute,  that  brigand !  A  hateful 
thing  some  one  once  told  me  keeps  surging  up  in 
my  memory — Rousseau  said  it  I  think — ^that  one  of 
the  best  tests  of  character  was  the  type  of  person 
selected  for  love  and  friendship.  I  can't  get  it  out 
of  my  head.  What  fool  ever  told  it  to  me?  Oh — all 
of  a  sudden  I  remember — it  was  Roger — Roger!  I 
feel  quite  frightened  when  I  think  of  him.  He  would 
be  so  angry  with  me  for  being  mixed  up  in  such  an 
affair,  or — as  he's  never  angry  v/ith  me — angry  with 
fate  for  leading  me  into  this  galere.  He  is  one  of 
the  people  who  adhere  to  the  sheep  and  goat  theory. 


i62  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

To  him  women  are  black  or  white,  and  the  white 
ones  must  have  the  same  relation  to  the  black  that 
Voltaire  had  to  Le  bon  Dieu — know  them  by  sight 
but  not  speak. 


XI 

IT  IS  three  weeks  since  I  have  written  a  word. 
There's  been  too  much  to  do,  and  sleeping  about 
in  chairs  and  on  the  foot  of  beds  is  not  stimulating 
to  the  brain.  We  have  had  an  anxious  time,  for  Liz- 
zie Harris  has  been  desperately  ill.  Doctor  Vander- 
hoff — that's  the  young  man's  name — has  had  no  ne- 
cessity to  run  to  the  corner  of  Lexington  Avenue  and 
then  wonder  which  way  to  go,  for  he  has  been  in 
here  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  He  is  a  dear,  and  a 
clever  dear,  too,  for  he  has  pulled  Lizzie  back  from 
dreadful  dangers.  For  a  while  we  didn't  think  she 
would  ever  be  herself  again.  Her  heart — ^but  what's 
the  sense  of  recapitulating  past  perils.  She's  better, 
that's  enough,  and  to-night  I'm  down  in  my  apart- 
ment leaving  Miss  Bliss  in  charge. 

She's  another  dear,  poor  little  half-fed  thing,  run- 
ning back  from  her  sittings  to  post  up-stairs,  panting 
and  frost  nipped,  and  take  her  place  in  that  still  front 
room.  How  still  it's  been,  with  the  long  motionless 
body  on  the  bed,  that  wouldn't  speak  and  wouldn't 
eat,  and  hardly  seemed  to  breathe.    Sometimes  the 

163 


i64  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

men  came  up  and  took  a  turn  at  the  nursing.  The 
count  was  no  use.  The  sight  of  her  frightened  him 
and  he  had  to  be  taken  into  the  kitchen  and  given 
whisky.  But  young  Hazard  was  as  good  as  a  hos- 
pital graduate,  soft-handed  and  footed,  better  than 
Mrs.  Phillips,  who  came  up  once  or  twice  between 
her  own  cases,  was  very  superior  and  nagged  about 
the  sun-dial. 

When  he  could,  Mr.  Hazard  watched  for  the  first 
half  of  the  night  and  Dolly  Bliss  and  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  had  supper  of  tea  and  eggs.  We've 
grown  very  intimate  over  these  midnight  meals.  I 
don't  see  how  she  lives — ^ten  dollars  a  week  the  most 
she  has  made  this  winter,  and  often  gaps  without 
work.  One  night  I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  posed 
for  the  altogether.  Under  normal  circumstances  I 
would  no  more  have  put  such  a  question  than  I'd 
have  inquired  of  Mrs.  Bushey  what  she  had  done 
with  her  husband.  But  with  the  specter  of  death  at 
our  side,  the  reticences  of  every  day  have  dropped 
away. 

She  nodded,  looking  at  me  with  large  pathetic 
eyes. 

"Often  In  the  past,  but  now,  unfortunately,  Vm 
not  in  demand  for  that.    I'm  getting  too  thin." 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  165 

In  this  close  companionship  I  have  found  her  gen- 
erous, unselfish  and  honest  to  the  core.  Is  our  mod- 
esty an  artificial  attribute,  grafted  on  us  like  a  bud 
to  render  us  more  alluring?  This  girl,  struggling 
against  ferocious  poverty,  is  as  instinctively,  as 
rigorously  virtuous  as  I  am,  as  Betty,  as  Mrs.  Ash- 
worth,  yet  she  does  a  thing  for  her  livelihood,  the 
thought  of  which  would  fill  us  with  horror.  I'm 
going  to  put  it  to  Betty,  but  I  wouldn't  dare  tell 
her  what  I  really  think — ^that  of  the  two  points  of 
view  Miss  Bliss'  is  the  more  modest. 

When  we  were  sure  Lizzie  was  on  the  up-grade, 
a  new  worry  intruded — had  she  any  independent 
means?  Nobody  knew.  Mrs.  Bushey  was  urgent 
and  to  keep  her  quiet  I  offered  to  pay  the  top-floor 
rent  for  a  month  and  found  that  the  count  had 
already  done  it.  I,  who  knew  her  best,  feared  she 
had  nothing,  and  it  was  "up  to  me"  to  get  money 
for  her  from  somewhere. 

Of  course  Betty  was  my  natural  prey  and  yester- 
day afternoon  fate  rendered  her  into  my  hands. 
She  came  to  take  me  for  a  drive  in  a  hansom,  bring- 
ing with  her  her  youngest  born,  Henry  Ferguson, 
Junior,  known  familiarly  as  Wuzzy.  Wuzzy  is  three, 
fat,  not  talkative  and  spoiled.    He  wore  a  white 


166  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

bunny-skin  coat,  a  hat  with  rosettes  on  his  ears, 
leather  leggings  and  kid  mitts  tied  round  his  wrists 
with  ribbons.  He  had  so  many  clothes  on  that  he 
moved  with  difficulty,  breathing  audibly  through  his 
nose.  When  he  attempted  to  seat  himself  on  the  prie- 
dieu,  the  only  chair  low  enough  to  accommodate 
him,  he  had  to  be  bent  in  the  middle  like  a  jointed 
doll. 

I  can  not  say  that  I  love  Wuzzy  as  much  as  I  do 
Constance.  He  is  the  heir  of  the  Fergusons  and  the 
conquering  male  is  already  apparent.  It  is  plain  to 
be  seen  that  he  thinks  women  were  made  to  ad- 
minister to  his  comfort  and  amuse  him  in  his  dull 
moments.  I  have  memories  of  taking  care  of  Wuzzy 
last  autumn  at  Betty's  country  place  when  his  nurse 
was  off  duty.  I  never  worked  so  hard  in  my  life. 
Half  the  energy  and  imagination  expended  in  what 
the  newspapers  call  a  "gainful  occupation"  would 
have  made  me  one  of  those  women  of  whom  The 
Ladies'  Home  Journal  prints  biographies. 

I  carried  him  down-stairs.  It  was  not  necessary, 
for  dangling  from  the  maternal  hand  he  could  have 
been  dragged  along,  but  there  is  something  so  nice 
about  hugging  a  healthy,  warm,  little  bundle  of  a 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  167 

boy.  As  I  bent  for  him  he  held  up  his  arms  with  a 
bored  expression,  then  stiff  and  upright  against  my 
shoulder,  looked  down  the  staircase  and  yawned. 
It's  the  utter  confidence  of  a  child  that  makes  it  so 
charming.  Wuzzy  relinquished  himself  to  my  care 
as  if,  when  it  came  to  carrying  a  baby  down-stairs, 
I  was  the  expert  of  the  western  world. 

As  we  descended  I  rubbed  my  cheek  against  his, 
satin-smooth,  cold  and  firm.  He  drew  back  and 
gazed  at  me,  a  curiously  deep  look,  impersonal,  pro- 
found. The  human  being  soon  loses  the  capacity 
for  that  look.  It  only  belongs  to  the  state  when 
we  are  still  "trailing  clouds  of  glory." 

We  squeezed  him  between  us  and  tooled  away 
toward  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was  a  glorious  afternoon 
and  it  was  glorious  to  be  out  again,  to  breathe  the 
keen  sharp  air,  to  see  the  park  trees  in  a  thin 
purplish  mist  of  branch  on  branch.  Wuzzy,  seeing 
little  boys  and  girls  on  roller  skates,  suddenly 
pounded  on  us  with  his  heels  and  had  to  be  lifted  to 
a  prominent  position  on  our  knees,  whence  he  leaned 
over  the  door  and  beat  gently  on  the  air  with  his 
kid  mitts. 

"What  a  bother  this  child  is,"  sighed  Betty,  boost- 


1 68  THE    BOOK   OF   EVELYN 

ing  him  up,  "I  only  brought  him  because  I  had  to. 
Some  relation  of  his  nurse  is  sick  and  she  went  out 
to  see  them." 

Her  only  son  is  the  object  of  Mrs.  Ferguson's 
passionate  adoration,  yet  she  always  speaks  of  him 
as  if  he  was  her  greatest  cross. 

Wuzzy  comfortable,  his  attention  concentrated  on 
the  moving  show,  I  brought  my  subject  on  the  car- 
pet. 

"Dear  me,  how  dreadful,**  Betty  murmured,  much 
moved  by  the  expurgated  version  of  Lizzie  Harris' 
troubles.  "Wuzzy,  if  you  don't  stop  kicking  me  with 
your  heels  I'll  take  you  home.*' 

Wuzzy  stopped  kicking,  throwing  himself  far 
over  the  door  to  follow  the  flight  of  a  golden-locked 
fairy  in  brown  velvet.  We  held  him  by  his  rear 
draperies  and  talked  across  his  back. 

"It's  a  cruel  situation,"  I  answered.  "Everything 
has  failed  the  poor  creature." 

"She  has  no  means  of  livelihood  at  all?" 

"I'm  not  sure  yet,  but  I  don't  think  so.  As  soon 
as  she's  well  enough  I'll  find  out.  Meantime  there's 
this  illness,  the  doctor — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  Betty  interrupted,  "I  know  all  that. 
But  it  needn't  bother  you.     I'll  attend  to  it." 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  169 

"Dear  Betty !"  I  let  go  of  Wuzzy  to  stretch  a  hand 
across  to  her. 

"Now,  donH  be  sentimental,  Evie.  This  is  the  sort 
of  thing  I  like  doing.     If  I  could  find  some  one — " 

The  prospects  suddenly  palled  on  Wuzzy  and  he 
threw  himself  violently  back  and  lay  supine  between 
us,  gazing  up  at  the  trap. 

"Good  heavens,  why  did  I  bring  him,"  groaned 
his  mother.  "I  wouldn't  take  care  of  a  child  like 
this  for  millions  of  dollars.  Why  do  nurses  have  sick 
relations  ?  There  ought  to  be  a  special  breed  raised 
without  a  single  human  tie.   Get  up,  Wuzzy." 

She  tugged  at  his  arm,  but  he  continued  to  stare 
upward,  inert  as  a  flour  sack. 

"What  does  he  see  up  there?"  I  said,  bending  my 
head  back  to  try  and  locate  the  object.  "Perhaps  it's 
something  we  can  take  down  and  give  him." 

"You  can't  unless  you  break  the  hansom  to  pieces. 
It's  the  trap." 

I  felt  of  it.  Wuzzy's  eyes  followed  my  hand  with 
a  trance-like  intentness  and  he  emitted  a  low  sound 
of  approval. 

At  that  moment,  as  though  fate  pitied  our  help- 
lessness, the  trap  flew  back  and  a  section  of  red 
face  filled  the  aperture. 


I70  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"Is  it  straight  down  the  avenue  I'm  to  go,  Mrs. 
Ferguson?"  came  a  cheerful  bass.  "You  ain't  told 
me. 

Wuzzy  looked,  flinched,  his  pink  face  puckered 
and  a  cry  of  mortal  fear  burst  from  him.  He 
clutched  us  with  his  mitts  and  wrenched  himself  to  a 
sitting  posture,  then,  determined  to  shut  out  the 
horrible  vision,  leaned  as  far  over  the  door  as  he 
could  and  forgot  all  about  it.  Betty  gave  directions 
and  we  sped  along  into  the  line  of  carriages  by 
Sherman's  statue.  We  had  to  wait  there,  and  a 
policeman  with  gesticulating  arms  and  a  whistle 
caught  Wuzzy's  attention.  He  waved  a  friendly  mitt 
at  him,  muttering  low  comments  to  himself.  His 
mother  patted  his  little  hunched-up  back  and  took 
up  the  broken  thread : 

"What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes — if  I  could  get 
some  one  who  would  hunt  up  such  cases  as  Miss  Har- 
ris' and  report  them  to  me  I'd  pay  them  a  good 
salary.  Those  are  the  people  one  never  hears  about, 
unless  in  some  accidental  way  like  this." 

The  policeman  whistled  and  we  moved  forward.  I 
began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  I'd  never  before  told 
Betty  half  a  story.  She  went  on : 

"Of  course  there's  charity  on  a  large  scale,  or- 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  171 

ganized  and  all  that.  But  the  hundreds  of  decent 
people  who  get  into  dreadful  positions  and  are  too 
proud  to  ask  for  aid,  are  the  ones  Vd  like  to  help. 
Especially  girls,  good,  hard-working,  honest  girls." 

In  my  embarrassment  I  fingered  Wuzzy's  ear- 
rosette.  He  resented  the  familiarity  and  angrily 
brushed  my  hand  away. 

*'0h,  do  let  him  alone,''  said  his  mother.  "You 
can't  tell  how  he'll  break  out  if  he  gets  cross — and 
I  know  Miss  Harris  is  all  that,  in  spite  of  her  hat  and 
her  looks,  or  you  wouldn't  be  so  friendly  with  her." 

"Charity  given  to  her  Is  charity  given  where  it's 
needed,"  I  muttered  with  a  red  face. 

I  felt  wretchedly  underhanded  and  mean,  and 
that's  one  of  the  most  unbearable  feelings  for  a  self- 
respecting  woman  to  endure.  For  one  reckless  mo- 
ment I  thought  of  telling  Betty  the  whole  story.  And 
then  I  knew  I  mustn't.  I  couldn't  make  her  under- 
stand. I  couldn't  translate  Lizzie  into  the  terms  with 
which  Mrs.  Ferguson  was  familiar.  I  saw  that 
broken  woman  emerging  from  my  narrative  a 
smirched  and  bespattered  pariah  of  the  kind  that, 
from  time  immemorial,  ladies  have  regarded  as  their 
hereditary  foe. 

It  would  have  been  Indulging  my  conscience  at 


172  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

her  expense,  and  my  conscience — well,  it  had  to 
resign  its  job  for  the  present.  It  was  odd  that  with 
a  worthy  intention  and  in  connection  with  one  of 
the  best  of  women,  I  felt  my  only  course  was  to 
deceive.  All  may  have  been  well  with  Pippa's  world, 
but  certainly  all  was  not  well  with  mine.  I  don't 
know  what  was  wrong,  only  that  something  was. 
I  know  I  should  have  been  able  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
know  I  ought  not  to  have  been  made  to  feel  a  coward 
and  a  sneak. 

Betty  enlarged  upon  her  scheme  of  benefaction 
and  we  drove  down  the  avenue,  full  from  curb  to 
curb  and  glittering  in  its  afternoon  prime.  Wuzzy 
was  much  entertained,  leaning  forward  to  eye  pass- 
ing horses  and  call  greetings  to  dogs  on  the  front 
seats  of  motors.  Once  when  he  needed  feminine  at- 
tention he  turned  to  me,  remarking  commandlngly, 
"Wipe  my  nose."  As  I  performed  this  humble  serv- 
ice he  remained  motionless,  his  eyes  raised  in  ab- 
straction to  a  church  clock.  I  have  heard  many  peo- 
ple envy  the  care-free  condition  of  childhood  and 
wish  they  were  babes  again.  I  never  could  agree 
with  them;  the  very  youthful  state  has  always 
seemed  to  me  a  much  overrated  period.  But  as  I 
obeyed  Wuzzy's  command  it  suddenly  came  upon  me 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  173 

how  delightful  it  would  be  to  be  so  utterly  free  of  re- 
sponsibility, so  unperplexed  by  ethical  problems,  so 
completely  dependent,  that  even  the  wiping  of  one's 
nose  was  left  to  other  hands. 

I  left  Lizzie  early  that  evening.  Miss  Bliss  and 
Mr.  Hazard  were  with  her  and  I  had  a  fancy  they 
liked  being  together  without  me  sitting  about  and 
overhearing.  I  pulled  a  chair  up  in  front  of  the 
fire  and  mused  over  that  question  of  taking  Betty's 
money.  My  discharged  conscience  was  homesick  and 
wanted  to  come  back.  In  the  midst  of  my  musing 
Roger  came  in,  and  presently,  he  and  I  sitting  one 
on  either  side  of  the  grate,  it  occurred  to  me  that  he 
would  be  a  good  person  to  put  in  the  place  of  my 
conscience — get  his  opinion  on  the  vexed  question 
and  not  let  him  know  it.  I  would  do  it  so  cleverly 
he*d  never  guess  and  I  could  abide  in  his  decision. 
Excellent  idea ! 

"Roger,"  I  began  in  a  simple  earnest  tone,  ''I 
want  to  ask  you  about  a  question  of  ethics,  and  I 
want  you  to  give  me  your  full  attention." 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Roger,  putting  a  foot  on  the 
fender.   "Fm  not  an  authority,  but  FU  do  my  best." 

"Suppose  I  knew  a  woman — no,  a  man's  better — • 
who  was,  well,  we'll  say  a  thief,  not  a  habitual  thief 


174  THE    BOOK   OK   EVELYN 

but  one  who  had  thieved  once,  got  into  bad  company 
and  been  led  away.  And  I  happened  to  know  he 
w^anted  help — financial — ^to  tide  him  over  a  period  of 
want.  Would  I  be  doing  something  underhanded  if 
I  asked  some  one — lefs  say  you — to  give  him  the 
money  and  didn't  tell  you  about  the  thieving?" 

I  thought  I  had  done  it  rather  well.  Roger  was 
interested. 

"Are  youi  supposed  to  know  for  certain  he'd  only 
committed  the  one  offense?" 

"Quite  sure,"  with  conviction. 

"What  made  him  do  it?" 

It  wasn't  so  easy  as  I  thought.  Theft  didn't  seem 
to  fit  the  case. 

"Well — he  was  tempted,  and — er — didn't  seem 
to  have  as  strict  a  moral  standard  as  most  people." 

"Um,"  Roger  considered,  then:  "This  seems  to 
be  a  complicated  case.  Was  he  completely  without 
will,  no  force,  no  character?" 

"Not  at  all,"  I  said  sharply.  "He  had  a  great  deal 
of  will  and  any  amount  of  character." 

"He  sounds  like  a  dangerous  criminal — plenty  of 
force  and  will  and  no  moral  standard." 

I  felt  irritated  and  raised  my  voice  in  a  combative 
note: 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  175 

"Now,  Roger,  don't  be  narrow-minded.  Can't 
you  imagine  quite  a  fine  person  who  mightn't  think 
stealing  as  wrong  as  you  or  I  think  it?" 

Roger  did  not  look  irritated,  but  he  looked  de- 
termined and  spoke  with  an  argumentative  firmness : 

"Evie,  I've  always  regarded  you  as  an  unusually 
intelligent  woman.  As  such  I'd  like  you  to  explain 
to  me  how  a  fine  person  of  will  and  character  can 
steal  and  not  think  it  as  wrong  as  you  or  I  would 
think  it." 

It  wasn't  working  out  as  I  expected  and  because 
it  wasn't  and  because  Roger  was  giving  it  his  full 
attention,  I  felt  more  irritated. 
,  "Didn't  I  tell  you  he'd  fallen  into  bad  company?" 

"You  did  and  I've  taken  it  into  consideration, 
but—" 

"Roger,  this  isn't  a  legal  Investigation.  You're 
not  trying  to  break  up  the  beef  trust  or  impose  a 
fine  on  Standard  Oil.  It's  just  a  simple  question 
of  right  and  wrong." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  it's  simple.  This  person 
with  any  amount  of  character  fell  under  a  bad  in- 
fluence?" 

"That's  it — he  was  undermined,  and  though  he 
was,  as  I  said,  a  fine  person,  quite  noble  in  some 


176  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

respects,  he  didn't  think  stealing  was  so  wicked  as 
the  average  respectable  citizen  does." 

Roger  put  the  other  foot  on  the  fender  and  looked 
at  me  with  increasing  concentration. 

"I  don't  understand  at  all.  Let  me  try  and  get 
to  the  bottom  of  it.    What  did  he  steal?" 

For  a  moment  I  stared  at  him  blankly  without 
answering. 

He  went  on.  There  was  no  doubt  about  his  giving 
me  his  full  attention,  it  was  getting  fuller  every 
moment. 

"If  you'll  tell  me  the  nature  of  his  theft  and  under 
what  provocation  and  circumstances  it  was  com- 
mitted maybe  I'll  be  able  to  get  a  better  idea  of  the 
kind  of  person  he  was.     What  did  he  steal?" 

"But,  Roger,  this  is  a  hypothetical  case." 

"I  know  it  is,  but  that  doesn't  make  any  difference 
in  the  answer.  What  was  the  nature  of  the  theft — 
money,  jewels,  grafting  on  a  large  scale,  or  taking 
an  apple  from  the  grocer's  barrel?" 

I  looked  around  the  room  in  desperation,  saw  the 
blank  left  on  the  wall  by  the  Marie  Antoinette 
mirror,  and  said  doggedly : 

"He  stole  a  mirror." 


^pj 


Let  me  try  and  get  at  the  bottom  of  it" 


THE    BOOK   OF   EVELYN  177 

"A  mirror,"  said  Roger  with  the  air  of  having 
extracted  an  important  bit  of  evidence.  "Umph — 
Why  did  he  take  it?" 

"Roger,  what's  the  sense  of  going  into  all  these 
details?" 

*'Evie,"  with  maddening  obstinacy,  all  the  more 
maddening  because  it  was  so  mild,  "if  I'm  to  give 
an  answer  I  must  know.    Did  he  intend  to  sell  it?" 

"Yes,  he  did." 

I  was  so  angry  that  I  felt  ready  to  defend  any  one 
who  stole  anything  from  anybody. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  Roger,  still  mild  but  also 
reproachful,  "how  can  you  sit  there  and  tell  me  that 
a  man  who  steals  a  mirror  intending  to  sell  it  is  a 
fine  person,  quite  noble  in  some  respects  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you.  I  won't.  I  asked  you  a  simple 
question  about  a  man — a  man  I  just  made  up — • 
and  you  cross-examine  me  as  if  I  was  being  tried 
for  murder  and  you  were  the  lawyer  on  the  other 
side." 

"But,  Evie,  I  only  was  trying  to  do  what  you 
asked." 

"Well,  stop  trying.  Let  that  man  and  his  mirror 
drop  or  I'll  lose  my  temper."     I  snatched  up  the 


178  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

poker  and  began  to  poke  the  fire.  "I've  lost  it  now." 
I  poked  furiously  in  illustration.  "It's  too  aggra- 
vating.   I  did  so  want  your  opinion  about  it." 

*Well,  then,  here  it  is—" 

I  stopped  poking  and  leaned  forward,  So  far  for- 
ward that  to  keep  my  balance  I  had  to  put  a  foot  on 
the  fender. 

"Has  one  a  right  to  accept  pecuniary  aid  for  a 
person  who  has  committed  an  offense — the  first — 
without  telling  the  benefactor  of  that  offense?  Is 
that  it?" 

"Yes." 

"I  think  one  has." 

"You're  sure  they  needn't  tell  the  benefactor?" 

"I  wouldn't.  If  you  want  to  give  a  man  a  hand- 
up  why  rake  up  his  past?" 

I  got  it  at  last.  My  bad  temper  vanished.  I 
was  wreathed  in  smiles — 

"Oh,  Roger,"  I  cried  joyously,  "that's  just  what 
I  wanted  you  to  say.  It's  such  a  relief  that  we've 
worked  it  out  at  last,"  and  I  heaved  a  sigh  and  put 
the  other  foot  on  the  fender. 

I  sat  for  a  moment,  absently  looking  down,  then 
I  became  conscious  of  my  feet,  side  by  side  on  the 
brass  rail — ^two  small  patent  leather  points.    I  looked 


THE   BOOK  OF   EVELYN  179 

along  the  rail  and  there  on  the  other  side  were 
Roger's — two  large  patent  leather  points.  They 
looked  like  four  small  black  animals,  perched  in 
couples,  sociably  warming  themselves  by  the  blaze. 

"What  are  you  smiling  at?"  said  Roger. 

"How  near  we  came  to  quarreling  over  an  imag- 
inary man  stealing  an  imaginary  mirror,"  said  I. 


XII 

IIZZIE  is  coming  to  life,  hesitatingly  and  as  if 
_>  with  reluctance.  I  suppose  it's  natural  for  her 
to  be  extraordinarily  weak,  but  I  never  would  have 
believed  she  could  be  conscious  enough  to  talk  and 
so  utterly  indifferent  to  everything  that  should  con- 
cern her.  When  I  told  her  about  the  money,  saying 
it  came  from  a  friend,  she  murmured,  "That's  all 
right,"  and  never  asked  who  the  friend  was.  She 
seemed  to  have  no  interest  in  the  subject,  or  in  any 
subject,  for  that  matter.  She  makes  me  think  of 
a  brilliant,  highly  colored  plant  that  a  large  stone 
has  fallen  on. 

One  afternoon  last  week,  when  I  was  sitting  by 
the  table  in  her  room  reading,  she  suddenly  spoke. 

"Evie,  how  long  is  it  that  I've  been  sick  here?" 

"Nearly  a  month.  You've  been  very  ill,  but 
you're  getting  better  now  every  day." 

She  said  no  more  and  I  got  up  and  began  moving 
about  the  room,  arranging  it  for  the  evening.  I  was 
pulling  down  the  blinds  when  I  heard  her  stirring, 

1 80 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  i8r 

and  looking  back,  saw  that  she  had  twisted  about 
in  the  bed  and  was  watching  me.  In  the  dusk,  her 
face,  framed  in  elf  locks  of  black  hair,  looked  like 
a  white  mask.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  ask  me 
something — there  was  a  question  in  her  eyes — but 
she  made  no  sound.  I  lighted  the  lamp  and  shifted 
into  place  the  paper  rose  that  hung  from  the  shade. 
She  continued  to  follow  my  movements  with  the  in- 
tent observation  of  an  animal.  I  have  seen  dogs 
watch  their  masters  just  that  way.  The  feeling  that 
something  was  on  her  mind  grew  stronger.  I  went  to 
her  and  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Do  you  want  to  ask  me  anything?"  I  said. 

She  shook  her  head,  but  her  eyes  were  unquiet. 
Suddenly  I  thought  I  guessed.  I  put  my  hand  on 
hers  and  spoke  very  low. 

"Lizzie,  the  thing  you  told  me  that  night  when  I 
came  up  and  found  you  here" — I  looked  into  her 
face  to  see  if  she  understood — "IVe  never  told  to 
anybody." 

She  stared  at  me  without  answering. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

She  gave  a  slight  affirmative  nod. 

"And  I  never  will  tell  it  to  any  one  unless  you 
ask  me  to." 


1 82  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"I  don't  care  if  you  tell  it/*  she  said  with  weak 
indifference. 

It  was  the  first  gleam  of  her  old  self.  Whatever 
she  had  wanted  to  say  to  me  it  was  not  that.  Other 
women — ^the  women  of  my  world — would  have  been 
fearful  of  their  secret  lightly  guarded.  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  had  given  it  a  thought.  Either  her  trust 
in  me  was  implicit  or  she  didn't  care  who  knew 
it.    I  like  to  think  it  was  the  first. 

She  settled  back  against  the  pillow  and  made 
feeble  smoothings  of  the  sheet.  Still  persuaded  of 
her  inward  disquiet  I  sat  silent  waiting  for  her  to 
speak.    After  a  moment  or  two  she  did. 

"Have  any  letters  come  for  me?'* 

I  knew  this  was  the  question.  I  got  up  and  gave 
her  the  pile  of  letters  stacked  on  the  desk.  She 
looked  over  the  addresses,  then  pushed  them  back  to 
me. 

"I  was  afraid  he  might  write  to  me/'  she  said. 
"But  it's  all  right,  he  hasn't." 

I  got  a  shock  of  displeased  surprise. 

"You  didn't  expect  him  to  write  to  you,  Lizzie?" 

"He  might  have." 

"But  after — after  what  you  told  me,  surely,  oh, 
surely,  you  don't  want  to  hear  from  him  ?" 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  183 

I  was  fearful  of  her  answer.  If  she  was  waiting, 
hungering  for  a  letter  from  him,  it  would  have  been 
too  much  even  for  me. 

"That's  just  It— I  don't  want  to.  It's  all  in  the 
past,  as  if  it  had  happened  a  hundred  years  ago.  I 
want  it  to  stay  there — ^to  be  dead." 

She  looked  into  my  eyes,  a  deep  look,  that  for 
some  inexplicable  reason  reminded  me  of  Wuzzy's. 
I  have  long  realized  that  my  point  of  view,  my 
mental  processes,  are  too  remote  from  hers  for  me 
ever  to  see  into  her  mind  or  understand  its  workings. 
But  I  was  certain  that  she  meant  what  she  said. 
My  poor  Lizzie,  coming  up  out  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow,  with  her  feeble  feet  planted  on  the  past 

A  few  days  after  this  she  was  well  enough  to  sit 
up  in  bed  with  her  hair  brushed  and  braided,  and 
read  her  letters.  One  was  from  Vig^orol  asking  her 
why  she  had  not  come  for  her  lessons. 

She  gave  it  to  me,  remarking: 

"I  wish  you'd  answer  that.  Tell  him  I've  been 
sick,  and  that  I'll  never  come  for  any  more  lessons." 

I  dropped  my  sewing,  making  the  round  eyes 
of  astonishment  with  which  I  greet  her  unexpected 
decisions. 

"You're  not  thinking  of  giving  up  your  singing?" 


1 84  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

"Yes,  forever." 

"But  why?  Surely  you're  not  going  to  let  one 
failure  discourage  you." 

I  was  disturbed.  From  a  few  recent  remarks,  I 
am  satisfied  that  she  has  no  means  whatever.  She 
must  go  on  with  her  singing;  as  Mrs.  Bushey  would 
say,  "One  must  live."  She  could  curb  her  ambitions, 
make  her  living  on  a  less  brilliant  plane. 

"I'll  never  sing  again,"  she  answered. 

"You  might  give  up  attempting  the  opera,  or  even 
concerts.  But  there  are  so  many  other  things  you 
could  do.    Church  singing — ^you  began  that  way." 

"Yes,  that's  it.  I  began,  and  I'm  not  going  back 
to  where  I  began.  I'm  going  on  or  I'm  going  to 
stop.     And  I  can't  go  on." 

I  thought  she  alluded  to  her  lack  of  means  and 
said: 

"Lizzie,  I  can  get  the  money  for  you  to  go  back  to 
Vignorol — I  can  get  people  who  will  stand  behind 
you  and  give  you  every  chance." 

She  looked  listlessly  at  the  wall  and  shook  her 
head. 

"It's  no  use.  I  don't  want  it.  Masters  was  right. 
I  know  it  now." 

"You  mean — "   I  stopped ;  it  seemed  too  cruel. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  185 

But  she  was  minded  now  to  be  as  ruthlessly  clear- 
sighted about  herself  as  she  had  once  been  ob- 
stinately blind. 

"The  whole  equipment — I  haven't  got  it.  He 
banked  too  much  on  my  looks,  thought  they  were 
going  to  go  farther  than  they  did.  If  I'd  had  a 
great  voice— one  of  the  wonderful  voices  of  the 
world,  like  Patti  or  Melba — it  wouldn't  have  mat- 
tered about  not  having  the  rest.  But  there  are 
hundreds  with  voices  as  good  as  mine.  He  thought 
beauty  and  dramatic  instinct  were  going  to  carry 
me  through.  He  knew  I  had  the  one  and  he  thought 
he  could  give  me  the  other — ^train  it  Into  me.  No- 
body knows  how  hard  he  tried.  He  used  to  make 
me  stand  up  and  go  over  every  gesture  after  him, 
he  even  made  marks  on  the  floor  where  I  was  to  put 
my  feet.  And  then  he'd  sit  down  and  hold  his 
head  and  groan.  Poor  Jack" — she  gave  a  little  dry 
laugh — "he  had  an  awful  time !" 

I  could  realize  something  of  Masters'  desperation. 
To  have  discovered  a  song-bird  in  the  western  wilds, 
hoped  to  retrieve  his  fortunes  with  it  and  then  found 
a  defect  in  its  mechanism  that  neither  work  nor 
brains  nor  patience  could  supply — it  was  bitter  luck. 

"He  was  an  artist,"  she  went  on.     "He  could 


1 86  THE   BOOK   OE   EVELYN 

have  gone  straight  to  the  top  but  he  lost  his  voice 
after  the  first  few  years,  while  he  was  still  touring 
the  small  European  towns/* 

I  noticed  that  she  spoke  in  the  past  tense,  her  tone 
one  of  melancholy  reminiscence  as  if  he  really  was 
dead.  She  might  have  been  delivering  his  funeral 
sermon  and  placing  flowers  of  memory  on  his  tomb. 

"Why  couldn't  you  have  got  from  him  what  he 
tried  to  teach  you?  I  can't  understand,  you're  so 
intelligent." 

She  mused  for  a  moment,  then  said: 

"I've  been  thinking  of  that  myself  while  I've  been 
lying  here.  Looking  back  I  don't  seem  to  have  given 
it  my  full  mind  and  I've  been  wondering  if  perhaps 
I  wasn't  too  taken  up  with  him.  I  couldn't  get  away 
from  the  real  romance,  the  love-making  and  the 
quarrels,  first  one  and  then  the  other.  There  wasn't 
anything  else  in  my  life.  I  hadn't  time  to  be  inter- 
^ested  in  those  women  I  had  to  pretend  to  be.  My 
affairs  and  me  were  the  only  things  that  counted." 

"But  you  were  so  much  in  earnest,  so  desperately 
anxious  to  succeed." 

She  gave  me  a  side  look,  sharp  and  full  of 
meaning. 

"Because,  though   I   wouldn't  acknowledge  it,  I 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  187 

knew  he  wanted  to  break  with  me  and  the  only 
way  I  could  keep  him  was  to  make  good." 

"Good  heavens,  how  horrible!"  I  winced  under 
her  pitiless  plain  speaking. 

"Yes,  it  was,"  she  said  gently. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  little  palliatives  I  had  to 
offer,  the  timid  consolations,  were  shriveled  up  by 
that  fierce  and  uncompromising  candor.  Her  voice 
broke  the  silence,  quietly  questioning : 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  did  a  very  bad  thing?" 

"Oh,  Lizzie,  don't  ask  me  that.  I  can't  sit  in 
judgment.    That's  for  you,  not  for  me." 

She  looked  at  her  hands,  long  and  thin  on  the 
quilt.  Thus  down-drooped,  her  face  was  shockingly 
haggard  and  wasted.  Yet  of  the  storm  which,  had 
caused  this  ruin  she  was  now  speaking  with  a 
cold  impersonal  calm,  as  if  it  had  all  happened  to 
somebody  else.  My  own  emotions  that  swelled  to 
passionate  expression  died  away  before  that  inscru- ' 
table  and  baffling  indifference. 

"He  was  a  very  fine  man,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Finer  I  gasped. 

"Yes,  in  lots  of  ways.  About  his  art  and  work 
for  one  thing — he  had  great  ideals.  And  he  was 
very  good  to  me." 


i88  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

That  was  the  coping  stone.  I  heard  myself  saying 
in  a  faint  voice : 

"How?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  he  never  lied  to  me.  He 
told  the  truth  about  the  singing,  about  me,  about 
everything.  He  wasn't  a  coward,  either.  He  didn't 
run  away  and  send  me  a  letter.  He  came  and  had  it 
out  with  me,  made  me  understand." 

This  time  I  couldn't  speak.  Her  next  words  were 
like  the  laying  of  the  final  wreath  on  the  bier  of 
the  loved  and  respected  dead: 

"It  had  to  end  and  he  ended  it.  He  didn't  care 
how  much  it  hurt  me,  or  what  I  felt,  or  what  any- 
body thought.  That's  the  right  way  to  be — not  to 
let  other  people's  feelings  make  you  afraid,  not  to 
be  considerate  because  it's  easier  than  fighting  it  out. 
He  was  a  fine  man." 

That  was  John  Masters'  obituary  as  delivered  by 
his  discarded  mistress. 

The  thing  I  couldn't  get  over  was  that  she  showed 
no  signs  of  penitence.  As  far  as  I  could  see  she  was 
in  no  way  inclined  to  admit  her  fault,  to  bow  her 
head  and  say,  "I  have  sinned."  Her  own  conduct  in 
the  affair  seemed  to  be  the  last  thing  that  troubled 
her.    Yet  I  can  say  that  I,  a  woman  with  the  tradi- 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  189 

tional  moral  views,  could  not  think  her  either  aban- 
doned or  base.  I  don't  know  to  what  world  or  creed 
she  belonged,  or  to  what  ethical  code  she  adhered, 
except  that  it  was  not  mine  or  anybody  else's  that  I 
have  ever  known.  Whatever  it  was  it  seemed  to 
uphold  her  in  her  course.  What  was  done  was 
done  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  No  strugglings  of 
inner  irresolution,  no  attempt  to  exonerate  or  excul- 
pate, disturbed  her  somberly  steadfast  poise.  What 
would  have  been  admirable  to  any  one  was  her 
acceptance  of  the  blow,  and  her  recognition  of  her 
lover's  right  to  deliver  it. 

As  she  improved,  moved  about  the  room  and  took 
her  place  against  accustomed  backgrounds,  I  began 
to  realize  that  the  change  in  her  was  more  than  skin 
deep.  Her  wild-fire  was  quenched,  her  moods,  her 
beamings,  her  flashes  of  anger  were  gone.  A  wistful 
passivity  had  taken  their  place,  lovely  but  alien  to 
her  who  was  once  Lizzie  Harris.  Whatever  Masters 
had  said  in  that  last  interview  had  acted  like  an 
extinguisher  on  a  bright  and  dancing  flame.  It 
made  me  think  of  Dean  Swift  and  Vanessa.  Nobody 
knows  what  the  dean  said  to  Esther  VanhomrigK 
in  the  arbor  among  the  little  trees — only  she  had 
returned  from  it  a  broken  thing  to  die  soon  after. 


I90  THE    BOOK   OE   EVELYN 

Her  lover  had  killed  her;  Lizzie's  had  not  quite, 
but  he  had  certainly  put  out  the  light  in  that  way- 
ward and  rebellious  spirit. 

It  has  its  good  points,  for  those  people  who  are 
to  help  her  find  her  more  comprehensible,  much 
more  to  their  liking  than  they  would  the  old  Lizzie. 
Roger,  for  example,  has  met  her  again  and  is  quite 
impressed.  It  was  the  other  afternoon  when  I  was 
sitting  with  her  in  her  front  room.  The  door  was 
open  and  as  I  talked  I  listened  for  steps  that  would 
stop  two  flights  below  at  my  door.  I  had  had  no 
word  that  steps  might  be  expected,  but  one  doesn't 
always  need  the  word.  There  are  mornings  when  a 
woman  wakes  and  says  to  herself,  "He'll  come  to- 
day."   It  had  been  one  of  these  mornings. 

At  five,  when  the  lights  were  lit  and  I  had  put  on 
the  tea  water  to  boil,  I  heard  the  ascending  feet. 
If  it  was  some  one  for  me  could  I  bring  them  up? 
Lizzie  would  be  delighted.  I  ran  down  and  found 
him  standing  at  my  door  preparing  to  knock  with 
the  head  of  his  cane.  Would  he  mind  coming  up — 
I  didn't  like  to  leave  her  too  much  alone?  No, 
he  wouldn't,  and  up  he  came. 

Lizzie,  long  and  limp  in  the  easy  chair,  was 
sheltered  from  the  lamp  glow  by  the  paper  rose. 


THE    BOOK    OF.    EVELYN  191 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand  and  I  saw  he  was 
shocked  by  the  change  in  her,  as  well  he  might  be. 
The  only  other  time  he  had  seen  her  was  the  night 
of  the  concert,  the  climax  of  that  little  day  to  which 
every  dog  of  us  is  entitled. 

All  things  that  are  frail  and  feeble  appeal  to 
Roger.  Both  he  and  Mrs.  Ashworth  get  stiff  and 
ice-bound  before  bumptious,  full-fed,  prosperous 
people.  He  sat  down  beside  her  and  made  himself 
very  agreeable.  And  I  was  pleased,  immensely 
pleased;  could  better  endure  the  thought  of  Lizzie 
like  a  smashed  flower  if  by  her  smashing  she  was 
to  win  his  approval  and  interest. 

As  I  made  the  tea  I  could  hear  their  voices  rising 
and  falling.  Coming  up  the  passage  with  the  tray 
the  doorway  framed  them  like  a  picture  and  I 
stopped  and  gazed  admiringly.  It  was  like  the 
cover  of  a  ten-cent  magazine — a  graceful  woman 
and  a  personable  man  conversing  elegantly  in  a 
gush  of  lamplight.  The  lamplight  was  necessary 
to  the  illusion,  for  it  hid  Roger's  wrinkles  and  made 
his  gray  hair  look  fair.  He  could  easily  have 
passed  for  the  smooth-shaven,  high-collared  wooer, 
and  Lizzie,  languidly  reclining  with  listening  eyes, 
quite  fittingly  filled  the  role  of  wooee. 


192  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

An  hour  afterward,  as  we  went  down-stairs, 
Roger  was  silent  till  we  got  to  my  door.  Then  he 
said: 

"She  seems  very  different  from  what  she  was  that 
night  when  I  saw  her  in  your  room." 

"She  is  different.  You  don't  seem  to  realize 
she's  been  very  sick." 

"Yes— but— " 

I  pushed  open  the  door. 

"Roger,  aren't  you  coming  in?" 

"Sorry,  but  I  can't.  I'm  going  out  to  dinner  and 
I  have  to  go  home  and  change." 

I  was  disappointed,  but  I  wouldn't  have  shown 
it  for  the  world.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  it  was 
rather  stupid  of  him  not  to  have  made  a  move  to 
get  away  sooner,  to  have  a  moment's  talk  in  my 
parlor  by  my  lamplight. 

"From  what  you  told  me  of  her  I  thought  she  was 
rather  high-pitched  and  western." 

"I  never  said  that." 

"Maybe  you  didn't,  but  somehow  I  got  the  im- 
pression.    She's  anything  but  that — delicate,  fine." 

"Um,"  I  responded.  These  positive  opinions  on 
a  person  I  knew  so  much  better  than  he  did  rasped 
me  a  little. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  193 

Roger,  shifted  his  hat  to  his  left  hand  and  moved 
to  the  stair-head. 

"There's  something  very  unusual  about  her,  a 
sort  of  fragile  simplicity  like  a  dogrose.  Good-by, 
Evie.     Good  night." 

I  went  into  my  room.  It  was  cold  and  the  chill 
of  it  struck  uncomfortably  on  me.  I  had  a  queer 
feeling  of  being  suddenly  flat — spiritually — as  a 
flourishing  lawn  might  feel  when  a  new  roller  goes 
over  it.  It  improves  the  looks  of  the  lawn.  That  it 
didn't  have  the  same  effect  on  me  I  noticed  when 
I  caught  myself  in  the  chimneypiece  glass.  What 
a  dim  little  colorless  dib  of  a  woman  I  was!  And 
how  particularly  dim  and  colorless  a  dib  I  must  look 
beside  Lizzie. 

I  got  my  supper,  feeling  aggrieved.  I  had  never 
before  accused  fate  of  being  unfair  when  it  forgot 
to  make  me  pretty.  But  now  I  felt  hurt,  meanly 
discriminated  against.  It  wasn't  just  to  give  one 
woman  shining  soulful  eyes,  set  deep  under  classic 
brows,  and  another  small  gray-green  ones  that  said 
nothing  and  grew  red  in  a  high  wind.  It  wasn't 
a  square  deal. 

Yesterday  afternoon  Betty  turned  up  and  found 
the  invalid  sitting  in  my  steamer  chair  looking  at 


194  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

the  juniper  bush.  Betty  had  never  spoken  to  her 
before  and  they  talked  amicably,  Mrs.  Ferguson 
visibly  thawing.  I  left  them,  for  I  want  Betty  to 
know  her  and  help  her  of  her  own  free  will,  want 
to  eliminate  myself  as  the  middleman. 

I  was  in  the  kitchenette,  getting  tea  again,  when 
Betty  came  to  the  door  and  hissed  her  impressions 
in  a  stage  whisper. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  she  was  so  charming?" 

Business  with  the  kettle. 

*'She's  one  of  the  sweetest  creatures  I  ever  met." 

Business  with  the  hot  water. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  ever  thought  she  looked 
theatrical.  She  must  have  had  on  somebody  else's 
clothes.  She's  a  Madonna — ^those  eyes  and  that  sad 
far-away  look." 

Business  with  the  toast. 

Betty  was  so  interested  that  she  got  into  the 
kitchenette  with  me.  The  congestion  was  extreme, 
especially  as  she  takes  up  so  much  room  and  is  so 
hard.  You  can't  squeeze  by  her  or  flatten  her 
against  walls — ^you  might  as  well  try  to  flatten  a 
Corinthian  column.  I  had  to  feel  round  her  for 
cups  and  plates,  engirdle  her  glistening  and  pros- 


•    THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  195 

perous  bulk  and  grope  about  on  the  shelves  behind 
her. 

"It's  absurd  of  her  fooling  about  with  this  music. 
She  ought  to  marry.   Has  she  any  serious  admirer?" 

"Wouldn't  any  woman  who  looked  like  that  have 
serious  admirers?  Betty,  I  can't  find  the  cups. 
Would  you  mind  moving  an  inch  or  two  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  at  all  if  there  was  an  inch  or 
two  to  move  in  to.  When  you  have  a  kitchen  like 
this  you're  evidently  expected  to  hire  your  maid 
by  measure.     Who's  her  admirer?" 

"Oh,  every  man  in  the  house." 

"Are  any  of  them  possible?" 

I  pried  her  back  from  the  stove  and  inserted 
myself  between  her  and  It,  feeling  like  a  flower 
being  pressed  In  the  leaves  of  a  book. 

"No,  not  very,  possible." 

"I'll  have  to  see  what  I  can  do." 

As  I  poured  the  water  on  the  tea  I  couldn't  help 
saying  over  my  shoulder : 

"There's  Mr.  Albertson.  He's  still  unclaimed  in 
the  'Found'  Department." 

Mr.  Albertson  hadn't  loved  me  at  first  sight  and 
Betty  feels  rather  sore  abput  it.     She  drew  a  deep 


196  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

breath,  thereby  crushing  me  against  the  front  o£ 
the  stove. 

"No/*  she  said  consideringly.  "He  won't  do. 
He's  too  old  and  too  matter-of-fact.  Besides,  I  want 
him  for  one  of  the  Geary  girls,  my  second  cousins, 
who  live  up  in  the  Bronx  and  make  shoe  bags. 
I'm  not  sure  which  he'll  like  best,  so  to-morrow  night 
I'm  having  them  both  to  dine  with  him." 

Then  we  had  tea  and  Betty's  good  impression 
increased.  She  went  away  whispering  to  me  on  the 
stairs  that  she  was  quite  ready  to  tide  Miss  Harris 
over  her  difficulties  and  help  her  when  she  had  de- 
cided what  she  wanted  to  do. 


XIII 

THE  weather  is  fine  and  we  are  all  recuperat- 
ing. I  must  confess  the  physical  and  spiritual 
storm  of  the  last  six  weeks  has  rather  laid  me  waste. 
I  haven't  felt  so  much  in  so  many  ways  since — ^well, 
my  high  water  mark  was  the  last  year  of  my  mar- 
ried life  and  that's  getting  to  be  a  faded  canvas. 
The  metaphor  is  somewhat  mixed,  but  if  I  draw  at- 
tention to  it  it  can  pass.  I'm  like  that  letter-writing 
English  woman  who  couldn't  spell,  and  when  she 
was  doubtful  about  a  word  always  underlined  it 
and  if  it  was  wrong  it  passed  for  a  joke. 

We  sit  about  a  good  deal  in  my  front  room  and 
late  in  the  afternoon  Lizzie's  admirers  drop  in.  The 
doctor,  by  the  way,  is  one  of  them.  He  says  he's 
still  interested  in  "the  case,"  poor  young  man.  Lizzie 
greets  them  with  wistful  softness  and  seems  as  in- 
different to  their  homage  as  if  they  were  pictures 
hanging  on  the  wall.  I  talk  to  them,  and  while  we 
talk  we  are  acutely  conscious  of  her,  singularly 
dominated  by  her  compelling  presence. 

197 


198  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

In  all  the  change  in  her  that  quality  is  as  strong 
as  ever.  I  do  not  yet  know  what  it  is  that  makes 
her  the  focusing  point  of  everybody's  attention,  but 
that  she  is,  nobody  who  has  lived  in  this  house  could 
deny.  I  believe  actresses  are  trained  to  "take  the 
stage  and  hold  it,"  but  Lizzie  has  the  faculty  as  a 
birthright.  It  is  not  her  looks;  I  have  seen  hun- 
dreds of  women  who  were  as  handsome  as  she  and 
had  no  such  ascendency.  It  is  not  the  high-handed 
way  she  imposes  her  personality  upon  every  one,  be- 
cause she  doesn't  do  that  any  more.  It  is  not  her 
serene  self-absorption,  her  unconscious  ignoring  of 
your  little  claims  to  be  a  person  of  importance.  It's 
something  so  powerful  no  one  can  escape  it,  and  so 
subtle  no  one  can  define  it — some  sort  of  magnetic 
force  that  puts  her  always  in  the  center,  makes 
her  presence  felt  like  an  unescapable  sound  or  a 
penetrating  light.  Wherever  she  is  she  is  "it." 
"Where  the  MacGregor  sits  there  is  the  head  of  the 
table." 

Wednesday  afternoon  In  the  slack  hours — ^the  rush 
hours  are  from  five  to  seven,  when  the  men  come 
home  from  business — Mrs.  Stregazzi,  the  eldest 
small  Stregazzi  and  Mr.  Berwick  dropped  In.  They 
had  just  heard  of  her  Illness  and  came  to  make  in- 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  199 

quiries.  Berwick  explained  this  because  Mrs.  Stre- 
gazzi  couldn't.  In  a  large,  black  lynx  turban  that 
looked  like  Robinson  Crusoe's  hat,  and  a  long  plush 
coat,  she  dropped  on  the  end  of  the  sofa  tapping  her 
chest  in  explanatory  pantomime  and  fetching  loud 
breaths  from  the  bottom  of  her  lungs. 

Berwick  looked  morosely  at  her,  then  explained : 

"It's  cigarettes — cuts  her  wind." 

"It's  my  new  corset,"  Mrs.  Stregazzi  shot  out  be- 
tween gasps,  "and  your  stairs." 

The  small  Stregazzi,  a  little  pale  girl  of  ten,  eyed 
her  mother  for  a  considering  moment,  then  ap- 
parently satisfied  with  her  symptoms,  sat  down  on 
the  prie-dieu  and  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  folded  her 
hands  in  her  lap  and  assumed  a  patient  expression. 

Lizzie's  illness  disposed  of,  the  conversation 
turned — no,  jumped,  leaped,  sprang — into  that 
world  of  plays  and  concerts  in  which  they  had  their 
beings.  Mrs.  Stregazzi,  though  still  having  trouble 
with  her  "wind,"  launched  forth  into  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  concert  tour  she  and  Berwick  were  to 
take  through  New  England.  Berwick  had  made  a 
hit  at  Lizzie's  concert  and  he'd  "got  his  chance  at 
last." 

I  sat  aside  and  marveled  at  her.     She  must  have 


200  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

been  forty  years  old  and  she  looked  as  weather- 
beaten  as  if,  for  twenty  of  the  forty  years,  she  had 
been  the  figurehead  of  a  ship.  But  vigor  and  en- 
thusiasm breathed  from  her.  With  the  Robinson 
Crusoe  hat  slipped  to  one  side  of  her  head  and  the 
new  corsets  emitting  protesting  creaks  as  she  swayed 
toward  me,  she  gasped  out  the  route,  the  terms,  the 
programs,  then  dabbing  at  the  little  girl  with  her 
muff,  exclaimed : 

"And  the  kids  are  going  to  stay  with  mommer 
in  the  Bronx.  Mrs.  Drake,  Fve  got  the  cutest  little 
flat  at  One  Hundred  and  Sixty-ninth  Street.  Wish 
you'd  go  up  there  some  day  and  you'll  see  the  best 
pair  of  children  and  the  grandest  old  lady  in  Man- 
hattan." 

Berwick  growled  an  assent  and  Miss  Stregazzi, 
with  her  air  of  polite  patience,  filled  in  while  her 
mother  caught  her  breath. 

"Grandma's  seventy-two.  She  used  to  sing  in  the 
opera  chorus,  but  she's  got  too  old." 

Mrs.  Stregazzi  nodded  confirmation,  her  eyes  full 
of  pride. 

"That's  the  way  she  pulled  me  along  and  got  my 
education.  Didn't  let  go  of  the  rudder  till  I  could 
take  hold.     Now  I  do  it.     It's  been  a  struggle,  took 


THE   BOOK   OF   EVELYN  2or 

me  into  vaudeville,  where  I  ttlet  Stregazzi  and  had 
my  troubles,  but  they're  over  now.  I'm  back  where 
I  belong  and  mommer  can  rest,  blessed  old  soul.  I 
keep  them  pretty  snug,  don't  I,  Dan?" 

Berwick  gave  a  second  growl  and  then  the  con- 
versation swung  back  to  the  inevitable  topic.  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  on  a  scenic  railway  on  a  large  scale,  be- 
ing rushed  perilously  along  with  wild  drivings 
through  space,  varied  by  breathless  stoppages  in 
strange  towns.  I  never  heard  so  much  geography 
since  my  school-days  or  so  much  scandal  since  I 
came  to  the  age  when  I  could  listen  to  my  elders. 
Names  I  knew  well  and  names  I'd  never  heard 
jostled  one  another  in  those  flying  sentences,  and 
the  quarrels !  and  the  divorces !  AND  the  love-affairs ! 
I  looked  uneasily  at  the  little  girl  and  caught  her 
In  the  act  of  yawning.  In  proof  of  her  grand- 
mother's good  training  she  concealed  her  mouth  with 
a  very  small  hand  in  a  very  dirty  white  glove.  Her 
mother  ended  a  graphic  account  of  the  trials  of  a 
tertium  quid  on  the  road : 

*'And  he  pulled  a  kodak  from  under  his  coat  and 
snapped  them  just  in  the  middle  of  the  kiss.  That 
divorce  wasn't  contested." 

The  little  girl,  having  accomplished  her  yawn, 


202  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

dropped  her  hand  and  said  without  interest,  but 
as  one  who  feels  good  manners  demand  some  sort 
of  comment  : 

"Whose  divorce?" 

"No  one  you  know,  honey.  A  lady  I  toured  with 
two  seasons  ago." 

Lizzie  and  Berwick  listened.  I  had  never  heard 
him  do  anything  else.  Before  I  came  to  live  here 
if  I  had  been  told  of  the  excellence  of  his  vocal  per- 
formance and  then  seen  him  I  would  have  shaken 
my  head  and  said  :  "That's  not  the  man."  A  winter 
at  Mrs.  Bushey's  has  taught  me  that  the  artist  does 
not  have  a  brand  upon  his  brow  like  Cain. 

His  listening  was  of  a  glowering  unresponsive 
kind;  Lizzie*s  was  all  avid  attention.  It  was  the 
first  time  since  her  illness  that  she  had  shown  any 
animation.  A  faint  color  came  into  her  face,  now 
and  then  she  halted  Mrs.  Stregazzi's  flow  of  words 
with  a  sharp  question.  The  projected  tour  was  the 
thing  that  absorbed  her.  She  kept  pulling  Mrs. 
Stregazzi  out  of  the  scandals  back  to  it.  There  was 
no  envy  in  her  interest.  It  was  to  me  extremely  pa- 
thetic, she,  the  failure,  speeding  Berwick  on  his  way 
to  success.  As  might  have  been  expected  he  was 
stolidly  indifferent  to  it,  but  I  was  amazed  to  see  that 
Mrs.  Stregazzi,  whom  I  was  beginning  to  like,  was 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  203 

untouched  or  was  too  engrossed  in  her  own  affairs 
to  notice  anything  else. 

Outside  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  she  paused, 
and  giving  a  glance  at  the  closed  door,  said  in  a  low- 
ered voice : 

"Where's  Masters?" 

Berwick  had  gone  on  ahead,  the  little  g^rl  with 
her  arm  hooked  over  the  banister  was  slowly  de- 
scending. Mrs.  Stregazzi's  eye,  holding  mine,  was 
intelligent  and  questioning.  I  saw  that  she  knew 
and  took  it  for  granted  that  I  did. 

"He  doesn't  come  any  more.  They've  had  a  dif- 
ference— a  quarrel,  I  think." 

"Left  her!"  She  raised  her  painted  eyebrows,  and 
compressing  her  lips,  looked  down  the  stairs  and 
emitted  a  low  "Umph !" 

A  world  of  meaning  was  in  that  sound,  a  deep 
understanding  pity. 

"I  thought  he'd  do  it,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to 
herself.  "She  couldn't  hold  him  the  way  things 
were  going." 

She  stood  musing,  her  head  slightly  drooped. 
The  Robinson  Crusoe  hat  changed  its  angle  and  slid 
down  over  her  forehead.  When  the  fur  interfered 
with  her  vision  she  arrested  its  progress,  ramming 
it  violently  back. 


204  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"I  guess  she  feels  pretty  bad,"  she  ruminated,  still 
with  the  effect  of  thinking  aloud.  "That  man's  got 
a  terribly  taking  way  with  women." 

I  felt  very  uncomfortable.  If  it  was  unnecessary 
to  contradict  her  it  was  also  unnecessary  to  admit 
her  charges  by  receiving  them  in  silence.  I  changed 
the  subject: 

"She  says  she'll  never  sing  again.  It's  very  un- 
fortunate." 

Mrs.  Stregazzi  harpooned  the  hat  with  an  enor- 
mously long  pin,  tipped  by  a  diamond  cluster. 

"Never  sing  again — oh,  rats !" 

She  grimaced  as  she  charged  with  the  pin  through 
a  series  of  obstructions. 

"Don't  you  be  afraid,  dearie.  She'll  sing — she 
can't  help  it." 

"But  she's  positive  about  it.    She  insists." 

"Does  she?"  She  shook  her  head,  testing  the 
solidity  of  the  anchorage.  "She'll  be  back  singing 
before  the  spring.  You  don't  know,  but  it's  in  her 
blood.  We  can't  keep  off,  none  of  us.  And  she/ 
Just  wait.    That's  all  she's  made  for." 

The  little  Stregazzi  had  come  to  an  end  of  her 
adventure  against  the  newel  post.  She  lolled  upon 
it,  wiping  the  crevices  with  her  fingers,  then  look- 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  205 

ing  at  her  gloves  to  see  how  much  dirtier  they  were. 

Her  mother  descended  a  step,  paused,  cogitated, 
then  turned  to  me,  frowning. 

''I  suppose  he's  done  nothing  for  her?" 

I  saw  she  meant  money.  The  astonishing  rawness 
of  it  made  me  redden  to  my  hair.  She  waited  for 
my  answer,  blind  apparently  to  the  expression  of 
anger  which  must  have  been  as  plain  as  my  out- 
raged blush. 

"As  to  that—"  I  began  haughtily. 

"He  hasn't.  Well,  I'll  send  her  round  fifty  dollars 
to-morrow  and  if  that's  not  enough  drop  me  a  line 
at  mother's  and  I'll  forward  some  more.  This  is 
the  best  contract  I've  ever  had." 

When  I  explained  and  tried  to  thank  her  for  Liz- 
zie she  laughed. 

"Oh,  don't  bother  to  tell  her  about  it.  It's  all 
in  the  day's  work.  If  you've  got  some  rich  woman 
interested  in  her  so  much  the  better.  But,  dearie," 
she  laid  her  hand  on  mine  resting  on  the  banister, 
"don't  you  fret  about  her.  She'll  go  back  to  the 
old  stamping  ground." 

When  I  went  back  into  the  room  Lizzie  was  sit- 
ting in  the  wicker  chair  gazing  out  of  the  window. 
She  spoke  without  looking  at  me. 


2o6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"Do  you  know  what  I  feel  like  ?  As  if  it  was  night 
and  I  was  on  a  ship  going  out  to  sea,  and  as  if  the 
land  was  getting  smaller  and  smaller.  I  can  just  see 
the  lights  of  houses  and  little  towns  twinkling  in  a 
line  along  the  edge  of  the  shore."  ^ 

"Where's  the  ship  going?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,"  came  her  answer 
through  the  dusk. 

A  knock  cut  off  my  reply.  It  was  Roger,  dropped 
in  for  an  hour  before  dinner.  Lizzie  rose  and  was 
for  going,  but  I  urged  her  to  stay  and  she  sank 
back  in  her  chair,  glad,  poor  soul,  to  be  with  us 
and  escape  the  dreariness  of  her  own  thoughts. 
I  lit  the  student  lamp  and  he  and  I  sat  down  by  it 
with  Lizzie  near  the  window,  the  light  falling  across 
her  skirts,  the  upper  part  of  her  dimly  blocked  out 
in  shadows  and  the  pale  patches  of  her  face  and 
hands. 

As  usual,  she  said  almost  nothing  and  a  selfish 
fear  stirred  in  me  that  she  was  going  to  spoil  our 
hour.  It's  hard  for  two  people  on  intimate  confi- 
dential terms,  to  have  a  gay  spontaneous  interview 
while  a  third  sits  dumb  in  a  corner.  I  think  Roger 
felt  the  irk  of  it  at  first.  He  did  most  of  the  talking 
and  he  did  it  to  me.     But  as  the  time  wore  on  I 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  207 

noticed  that  he  began  to  address  himself  more  and 
more  to  her.  He  seemed  unconscious  of  it  and  it  set 
me  wondering.  Was  he — a  man  not  susceptible  to 
personal  influences — going  to  feel  that  queer  mag- 
netic draw?  It  interested  me  so  much  that  I  forgot 
to  follow  what  he  said  and  watched  him,  and  there 
was  no  doubt  about  it — he  did  keep  turning  toward 
the  window,  where  he  could  see  nothing  but  a  mo- 
tionless shape  and  the  indistinct  oval  of  a  face. 

The  conversation  resolved  itself  into  a  monologue, 
two  mute  ladies  and  a  talking  man. 

Roger  really  did  feel  it ;  Roger,  who  would  hardly 
listen  to  me  when  I  told  him  about  her  In  the  res- 
taurant. It  showed  what  a  force  she  possessed, 
and  my  fancy  dwelt  on  it  till  I  began  to  see  it  as 
a  visible  thing  stretching  from  her  and  reaching 
out  toward  him.  It  was  an  uncanny  idea,  but  it 
obsessed  me,  and  Roger's  voice  sunk  to  a  rumbling 
bass  murmur  as  I  tried  to  picture  what  it  might 
look  like — a  thin  steady  ray  like  a  search-light,  or 
a  quivering  thread  of  vibrating  air,  or  long  clutch- 
ing tentacles  such  as  an  octopus  has,  or  a  spectral 
arm  of  gigantic  size  like  the  one  Eusapia  Pallidino 
conjured  out  of  shape  when  "the  conditions  were 
favorable."     The  cessation  of  his  voice  broke  my 


208  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

imaginings  and  I  was  rather  glad  of  it.  Next  time 
I  see  him  I'm  going  to  tell  him  about  them  and  ask 
him  which  of  the  collection  it  felt  most  like. 

I  wrote  all  this  a  week  ago,  and  reading  it  over 
to-night  it  seems  strange  that  I  was  only  amused, 
strange  by  contrast  with  the  way  I  feel  about  the 
same  thing  now.  It's  not  that  there's  any  dif- 
ference, or  that  anything  has  gone  wrong,  but — well, 
it  was  a  joke  then  and  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  joke 
any  more. 

What's  made  the  change  was  something  that  hap- 
pened here  this  afternoon.  It's  nothing  at  all,  but 
it  disturbed  me.  I  hate  to  think  it  did.  I  hate  to 
write  it  did.  I  hate  to  have  the  suspicious  petty 
side  of  me  come  up  and  look  at  me  and  say:  "I'm 
still  here.  You  can't  get  rid  of  me.  I'm  bound  up 
with  the  rest  of  you  and  every  now  and  then  I 
break  loose." 

If  I  wasn't  a  foreboding  simpleton  who  had  had 
her  nerve  shaken  by  bad  luck  I'd  simply  laugh. 
And  instead  of  doing  that  I  feel  like  a  cat  on  the 
edge  of  a  pond  with  a  stone  tied  around  its  neck,  and 
I  can't  sleep.  I  put  out  the  light  and  went  to  bed 
and  here  I  am  up  again,  wrappered  and  slippered, 
writing  it  out.     If  I  put  it  down  In  black  and  white. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  209 

see  it  staring  up  at  me  in  plain  words,  it  will  fall 
back  into  its  proper  place.  An  insignificant  thing — 
a  nonsensical  thing — the  kind  of  thing  you  tell  to 
your  friends  at  a  lunch  as  a  good  story  on  yourself. 

I  was  out  with  Betty  and  didn't  get  home  till 
five.  As  I  came  up  the  stairs  I  heard  voices  on  the 
top  floor,  just  a  low  rise  and  fall,  nothing  distin- 
guishing. Since  her  illness  Lizzie  keeps  her  sitting- 
room  door  open  and  I  knew  the  voices  were  from 
there.  I  supposed  one  of  the  admirers  was  with  her 
and  went  into  my  rooms  and  took  off  my  things. 
Then  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  go  up  and  make 
them  tea.     And  I  went  up  and  it  was  Roger. 

That's  all. 

Why  should  that  keep  me  awake?  Why  all  even- 
ing should  it  have  kept  coming  up  between  me  and 
the  pages  I  tried  to  read?  Aren't  they  both  my 
friends?  Why  can't  they  laugh  and  talk  together 
and  I  be  contented  ?  And  it  was  all  so  natural  and 
explicable.  Roger  had  come  to  my  door  and,  finding 
me  out,  had  gone  up  there  to  wait  for  me. 

But — oh!  Why  should  one  woman  be  beautiful 
and  one  plain  ?  Why  should  one  charm  without  an 
effort,  be  lovely  with  a  flower's  unstudied  grace, 
and  another  stand  awkward,  chained  in  a  stupid 


2IO  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

reserve,  caught  in  a  web  of  self-consciousness,  afraid 
of  being  herself?  Why  is  Lizzie  Harris  as  she  is 
and  I  as  I  am  ?  I  can't  write  any  more,  I  don't  get 
anywhere.  I  know  it's  all  right.  I  know  it,  but — 
something  keeps  me  awake. 


XIV 

IT'S  two  weeks  to-day  since  that  night  when  I 
couldn't  sleep.  It's  been  a  horrible  two  weeks — a 
sickening,  disintegrating  two  weeks.  My  existence 
has  been  dislocated,  thrown  wide  of  its  bearings, 
as  if  the  world  had  taken  a  sudden  wild  revolution, 
whirled  me  through  space,  and  I  had  come  up  dizzy 
and  bewildered,  still  in  the  old  setting,  but  with 
ever}^thing  broken  and  upside  down. 

It  began  with  that  visit  of  Roger  to  Lizzie's  sit- 
ting-room. The  morning  after  I  felt  humiliated, 
utterly  ashamed  of  myself.  It's  no  new  thing  for 
me  to  be  a  fool.  I  permit  myself  that  luxury.  But 
to  be  a  mean-spirited,  suspicious  fool  was  indulging 
myself  too  far.  I  saw  Lizzie  and  she  spoke  about 
Roger,  simply  and  sweetly,  and  my  folly  grew  to  a 
monumental  size,  beneath  which  I  was  crushed. 
And  my  dread  faded  as  the  horror  of  a  nightmare 
fades  when  the  morning  comes,  with  the  sun  and 
the  sounds  of  every  day. 

I  have  heard  people  say  that  these  moments  of 

211 


212  THE    BOOK   OF.   EVELYN 

relief  in  a  period  of  anxiety  are  all  that  enable 
one  to  bear  the  strain.  I  don't  think  that's  true. 
Alterations  of  stress  and  serenity  tear  one  to  pieces. 
If  you're  going  to  be  put  on  the  rack  it's  better  to 
have  no  reprieve.  Then  your  mind  accepts  it,  gets 
accustomed  to  it  and  you  tune  up  your  nerves,  screw 
your  courage  to  the  sticking  place  and  march  for- 
ward with  the  calm  of  the  hopeless. 

On  Sunday  afternoon — that  was  yesterday — 
Roger  and  I  were  to  have  tea  with  Mrs.  Ashworth. 
He  came  earlier  than  I  expected,  wanting  to  take 
a  walk  with  me  before  we  went  there.  Lizzie  was 
in  my  sitting-room,  also  Miss  Bliss,  picking  over 
the  last  box  of  chocolates  contributed  by  the  count. 
Miss  Bliss  was  not  dressed  for  receiving — instead  of 
the  kimono  and  the  safety  pin  she  wore  the  Navajo 
blanket,  and  when  she  saw  him  she  gave  a  cry  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  Susanna  when  she  dis- 
covered the  elders.  I  would  have  seen  the  humor  of 
it — the  model  who  had  posed  for  the  altogether  in 
abject  confusion  at  being  caught  huddled  to  the  chin 
In  a  blanket  as  thick  as  a  carpet — had  I  not  had  all 
humor  stricken  from  me  by  the  sight  of  Roger  in  the 
doorway.  The  cry  had  halted  him.  He  evidently 
had  no  idea  what  had  caused  it.     His  eyes  swerved 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  213 

from  Miss  Bliss  to  sweep  the  room  in  a  quick  ques- 
tioning glance.  When  it  touched  Lizzie  something 
shot  up  in  it — the  question  was  answered.  Miss  Bliss 
made  her  escape  without  anybody  noticing  her,  and 
I  heard  about  the  walk  and  went  into  the  back  room 
to  get  my  outdoor  things. 

I  have  explained  how  the  kitchenette  and  bath- 
room are  a  connecting  passage  between  the  two 
larger  rooms  of  the  suite.  I  came  back  through 
them,  and  having  left  the  sitting-room  door  open, 
could  see  at  the  end  of  the  little  vista  Roger  and 
Lizzie  by  the  table.  As  once  before  I  had  stopped 
to  watch  them,  I  stopped  now,  not  smilingly  this 
time,  but  furtively,  guiltily. 

They  were  talking  together.  To  watch  wasn't 
enough — I  had  to  hear  and  I  stole  forward,  step- 
ping lightly  over  the  bathroom  rug  and  half  closed 
the  door.  Standing  against  it,  I  listened.  Heaven 
knows  the  conversation  was  innocent  enough.  She 
was  telling  him  about  a  bracelet  she  wore  that  be- 
longed to  some  of  those  Spanish  people  she  was  de- 
scended from.  I  suddenly  felt  as  if  I  was  looking 
through  a  keyhole,  and  had  stretched  out  my  hand 
to  shut  the  door  when  a  silence  fell.  Then  all  the 
acquired  decencies  of  race  and  breeding  left  me.    I 


214  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

pushed  the  door  open  a  crack  and  peered  in.  She 
had  taken  the  bracelet  off  and  given  it  to  him  and 
he  was  turning  it  about,  studying  it  while  she 
watched  him. 

"I've  been  told  it's  quite  valuable  as  an  antique," 
she  said.    "Do  you  suppose  it  really  is  ?" 

"I  don't  know  about  the  antique,  but  I  should 
think  it  might  have  some  value.  The  design's  very 
unusual,"  he  answered,  and  handed  it  back  to  her. 

She  clasped  it  on  her  arm,  and  as  she  did  so,  her 
head  down-bent,  they  were  silent,  his  eyes  on  her 
face. 

I  had  never  seen  him  look  at  any  woman  that  way, 
but  I  had  seen  other  men.  It  is  an  unmistakable  look, 
the  mute  confession  of  that  passion  which  makes  the 
proudest  man  a  slave. 

I  closed  the  door  and  leaned  against  It.  For  a 
moment  I  felt  sick  and  frightened — frightened  at 
what  I'd  seen  and  frightened  of  myself. 

Presently  I  came  into  the  room  and  found  them 
still  talking  of  the  bracelet.  And  then  Roger  and  I 
started  for  our  walk,  leaving  Lizzie  alone. 

He  suggested  that  we  go  round  the  reservoir  and 
I  agreed,  stepping  along  silently  beside  him.  It  was 
a  raw  bleak  afternoon,  no  sun,  everything  gray,  ^he 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  215 

streets  were  sprinkled  with  sauntering  Sunday  peo- 
ple who  had  a  detached  dark  aspect  against  the  tone- 
less monochrome.  They  looked  as  If  they  were  mov- 
ing in  front  of  painted  scenery.  The  park  was  win- 
try, sear  boughs  patterned  against  the  sky,  blurs  of 
denuded  bushes,  expanses  of  hoary  grass.  Along  the 
roadway  the  ruts  were  growing  crumbly  with  the 
frost,  and  little  spears  and  splinters  of  ice  edged 
the  puddles. 

The  reservoir  shone  a  smooth  steely  lake,  with 
broken  groups  of  figures  moving  about  it.  Some  of 
them  walked  briskly,  others  loitered,  red  and  chilled. 
All  kinds  of  people  were  making  the  circuit  of  that 
body  of  confined  and  conquered  water — Jews  and 
Gentiles,  simple  and  gentle,  couples  of  lovers,  com- 
panies of  young  men,  family  parties  with  the  chil- 
dren getting  in  the  way  and  being  shoved  to  one  side, 
stiff  stout  women  like  Betty  trying  to  lose  a  few 
pounds.  On  the  west  side  vast  apartment-houses 
made  a  rampart,  pierced  with  windows  like  a  line 
of  forts. 

We  commented  on  the  cold  and  Roger  quickened 
the  pace,  sweeping  me  along  the  path's  outer  edge. 
Presently  he  began  to  talk  of  Lizzie,  leaning  down 
to  catch  my  answers,  keen,  impatient,  straining  to 


2i6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

hear  me  and  not  lose  a  word.  He  Is  a  tall  man  and 
I  am  a  small  woman  and  I  bobbed  along  at  his  shoul- 
der trying  to  keep  up  with  him,  trying  to  sound 
bright  and  interested,  and  feeling  myself  a  meager 
unlovely  body  carrying  a  sick  and  shriveled  heart. 

"No,  sheUl  never  sing  again,"  I  said,  in  answer  to 
a  question.  *'She  seems  to  have  made  up  her  mind 
to  that." 

He  swung  his  cane,  cutting  at  the  head  of  a  dry 
weed. 

"Thaf  s  a  good  thing." 

"Why  Is  It  a  good  thing?" 

"Oh,  because,"  he  dropped  a  pace  behind  me  to 
let  a  straggling,  red-nosed  family  pass  and  I  craned 
my  head  back  to  hear  him.  "She's  not  fitted  for  that 
kind  of  life.    It's  not  for  women  like  her.'* 

"Why?" 

He  was  beside  me  again. 

"She's  too-er-too  fine,  too  delicately  organized." 

I  didn't  answer.  Knowing  what  I  did,  what  was 
there  for  me  to  say? 

"The  women  to  succeed  In  that  have  got  to  be  ag- 
gressive, fight  their  way  like  men.  She  never  could 
do  It." 

I  again  had  no  response  and  we  fared  on,  I  trying 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  217 

to  keep  up,  hungry  for  his  next  word  and  fearful 
of  what  It  might  be.  It  came  in  a  voice  that  had  an 
artificial  note  of  carelessness. 

"What's  become  of  that  man  you  told  me  about, 
that  man  we  saw  in  the  hall  one  night  when  you  first 
went  up  there  ?'* 

"I  don't  know  what's  become  of  him." 

"You  haven't  seen  him  lately?" 

"No,  not  for  some  weeks." 

There  was  another  pause.  I  wasn't  going  to  help 
him.  It  was  part  of  my  torment  to  wait  and  see  how 
he  was  going  to  get  the  information  he  wanted,  to 
see  Roger,  uneasy  and  jealous,  feeling  round  a  sub- 
ject, not  daring  to  be  frank.  When  he  could  wait 
no  longer  his  voice  showed  a  leashed  and  guarded 
Impatience. 

"You  led  me  to  believe  he  was  a  great  friend  of 
hers." 

"He  was/' 

"Wasf    Is  he  so  no  longer?" 

"No,  they've  had  a  quarrel  of  some  sort." 

"Umph." 

Again  a  silence.  We  passed  a  trio  of  Jewish  girls 
In  long  coats  who  looked  me  over  solemnly  with 
large  languorous  eyes. 


2i8  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"He  was  a  horrible-looking  bounder,"  he  said. 

"He  was  what  he  looked/'  I  answered. 

"Then  how,"  he  exclaimed,  unable  to  restrain  the 
question,  ''could  he  have  been  a  friend  of  hers  ?" 

He  was  embarrassed  and  ashamed,  and  to  hide  it 
cut  vigorously  at  the  dead  weeds  with  his  cane. 
Through  this  childish  ruse  his  desire  to  know  was  as 
plain  as  if  he  had  expressed  it  in  words  of  one 
syllable. 

"He  was  her  sponsor.  She  was  a  sort  of  specula- 
tion of  his;  he  was  training  her  for  the  operatic 
stage.    I've  told  you  all  this  before." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but — well,  it's  a  reasonable  explana- 
tion." 

He  had  been  speaking  with  his  face  turned  from 
me,  his  eyes  following  the  slashings  of  the  cane.  Now 
he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  across  to  the  apart- 
ment-houses. The  movement,  the  brightened  expres- 
sion, the  tone  of  his  voice,  told  of  a  lifted  weight. 
He  had  heard  it  all  before,  but  then  he  hadn't  cared. 
Now,  caring,  he  wanted  to  hear  it  again,  to  be  as- 
sured, to  have  all  uncertainty  appeased. 

"It  was  a  business  arrangement,"  he  said.  "Yes, 
T  remember,  you  told  me  some  time  ago." 

This  time  I  didn't  answer  because  a  thought  had 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  219 

surged  up  in  my  mind  that  had  put  everything  else 
out — I  ought  to  tell  him!  He  was  under  Lizzie's 
spell  and  Lizzie  was  as  unknown  to  him  as  if  she 
had  been  an  inhabitant  of  Mars.  He  was  charmed 
by  a  creature  of  his  own  creating,  an  ideal  built  up 
on  her  beauty  and  her  weakness.  Did  he  know  her 
as  she  really  was  he  would  have  recoiled  from  her 
as  if  she  had  been  one  of  the  sirens  from  whom 
Ulysses  fled.  She  was  the  opposite  of  everything 
he  imagined  her  to  be,  of  everything  he  held  sacred 
in  woman.  John  Masters  had  been  her  lover.  It 
was  appalling,  monstrous.   I  must  tell  him. 

And  then  I  thought  of  her  and  how  she  had  con- 
fessed her  secret  and  I  had  said  I  wouldn't  tell. 

The  impulse  to  reveal  it  for  his  sake  and  the  im- 
pulse to  keep  silent  for  hers,  began  to  struggle  in 
me.  I  became  a  battle-ground  of  two  contending 
forces.  The  desire  to  tell  was  strongest;  it  was  like 
a  live  thing  fighting  to  get  out.  It  filled  me,  crushed 
every  other  thought  and  impulse,  swelled  up  through 
my  throat  and  pressed  on  my  lips.  I  bit  them  and 
walked  on  with  fixed  eyes.  As  if  from  a  distance  I 
heard  Roger's  voice: 

"From  what  you  said  he  must  be  an  impossible 
cad.    I  knew  she  couldn't  have  had  him  for  a  friend. 


220  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

Poor  girl,  having  to  associate  with  a  man  like  that  be- 
cause business  demanded  it.  What  a  rotten  exist- 
ence." 

I  had  to  tell. 

''Roger,"  I  said,  hearing  my  voice  sound  hoarse. 

''Yes." 

I  felt  suddenly  dizzy  and  halted.  Like  a  vision 
I  saw  Lizzie  lying  on  the  sofa,  v/hispering  to  me 
that  Masters  had  left  her.  The  inside  of  m)^  mouth 
was  so  dry  I  had  difficulty  in  articulating.  I  stam- 
mered : 

"Wait.    I  can't  walk  so  fast.*' 

He  was  very  apologetic. 

"Oh,  Evie,  dear,  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  should 
have  told  me  before.  I  am  so  used  to  walking  alone 
that  I  forgot." 

W^e  moved  at  a  slower  pace.  The  view  that  had 
receded  from  my  vision  came  back.  My  face  was 
damp  and  the  icy  air  blowing  on  it  was  good.  The 
spiritual  fight  went  on,  with  my  heart  beating  and 
beating  like  a  terrible  warlike  drum  urging  me  on. 
Now  was  the  time  for  him  to  know,  before  it  was 
too  late.  We  were  half-way  round — I  could  get  it 
over  before  we'd  made  the  full  circuit.  And  then 
I'd  be  at  peace,  would  have  done  a  hideous  thing 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  221 

that  I  ought  to  do.  Now — now!  I  fetched  up  a 
breath  from  the  bottom  of  my  lungs.    He  spoke : 

"That's  why  she  oughtn't  to  go  on  with  this  sing- 
ing. It  brings  a  woman  into  contact  with  people 
that  she  shouldn't  meet." 

Each  sentence  seemed  to  point  my  way  clearer. 
If  he'd  had  any  doubts,  hadn't  been  so  completely 
without  suspicion.  But  to  hear  him  talk  this  way! 
I  tried  to  make  a  beginning  with  Lizzie's  whisper- 
ing voice  getting  in  the  way.  I  couldn't  find  a 
phrase,  nothing  came  but  blunt  brutal  words.  There 
was  a  moment  when  I  thought  I  was  going  to  cry 
these  out,  scream  at  him,  "Roger,  she  was  that  man's 
mistress!"  Then  everything  blurred  and  I  caught 
hold  of  the  fence. 

I  was  pulled  back  to  reality  by  the  quick  concern 
of  his  voice. 

"Evie,  are  you  ill?" 

I  suppose  I  looked  awful.  His  face  told  me  so ;  he 
was  evidently  scared.  I  realized  I  couldn't  go  on 
with  it,  must  wait  till  a  better  time.  The  thought 
quieted  me  and  my  voice  was  almost  natural,  though 
my  lips  felt  loose  and  shaky. 

"Fm  tired,  I  think." 

"You're  as  white  as  death.     Why  didn't  you  tell 


222  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

me  ?  Good  heavens,  what  an  idiot  I  am  not  to  have 
noticed  before." 

Two  men  and  a  child  stopped.  The  intent  and 
glassy  interest  of  their  eyes  helped  to  pull  me  to- 
gether. I  let  go  of  the  fence  and  put  my  hands, 
trembling  as  if  with  an  ague,  into  my  muff.  Roger 
gave  the  trio  a  savage  look,  before  which  they 
quailed  and  slunk  reluctantly  away,  watching  us 
over  their  shoulders. 

"Come,"  he  said  commandingly,  and  pulled  my 
hand  through  his  arm.  "We'll  go  to  the  Eighty- 
sixth  Street  entrance  and  get  a  cab." 

We  walked  forward,  arm  in  arm,  and  I  gradually 
revived.  I  couldn't  come  to  any  decision  now.  I 
wasn't  fit.  I  must  think  it  over  by  myself.  My 
forces  began  to  come  back  and  the  feeling  of  my 
insides  falling  down  into  my  shoes  went  away.  Roger 
was  in  a  state  of  deep  contrition  and  concern,  bend- 
ing down  to  look  into  my  face,  while  I  held  close 
to  his  arm.  People  stared  at  us.  I  think  they  took  us 
for  lovers.  They  must  have  thought  the  gentleman 
had  singular  taste  to  be  in  love  with  such  a  sorry 
specimen  of  a  woman. 

When  we  reached  the  Eighty-sixth  Street  entrance 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  223 

he  wanted  to  take  me  home,  but  I  insisted  on  going 
to  Mrs.  Ashworth's.  I  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of 
my  own  rooms.  Alone  there,  I  would  go  back  to 
that  appalling  subject  and  I  couldn't  stand  any  more 
of  it  now.  We  got  into  a  taxi  and  sped  away  through 
the  Sunday  quietness  of  the  city,  sweeping  through 
Columbus  Circle  and  then  down  to  Fifth  Avenue.  I 
leaned  against  the  window  watching  the  long  line 
of  vehicles.  I  was  empty  of  sensation,  gutted  like  a 
burned-out  house,  and  that  purposeful  procession 
caught  and  carried  my  attention,  exercising  on  my 
spent  being  a  hypnotic  attraction.  Roger,  finding  me 
inclined  for  silence,  sat  back  In  his  corner  and 
lighted  a  cigarette.  He  had  accepted  my  explana- 
tions in  perturbed  good  faith.  We  sped  on  this  way, 
with  the  glittering  rush  that  swept  by  my  window, 
lulling  me  into  a  sort  of  exhausted  torpor. 

The  usual  adjusting  of  myself  to  Mrs.  Ashworth's 
environment  was  not  necessary.  I  harmonized  bet- 
ter than  I  had  ever  done  before.  I  am  sure  every 
red  corpuscle  in  my  blood  was  pale,  and  if,  on  my 
former  visits  I  had  instinctively  moved  softly,  now 
I  did  so  because  I  was  too  limp  to  move  any  other 
way.    If  refinement,  as  some  people  think,  is  merely 


224  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

an  evidence  of  depleted  vitality,  I  ought  to  have  ap- 
peared one  of  the  most  refined  females  of  my  day 
and  generation. 

Betty  was  there  and  Harry  Ferguson,  Harry 
obviously  ill  at  ease.  I  know  just  how  he  felt — as  if 
he  was  too  big  for  the  chairs,  and  when  he  spoke  it 
sounded  like  a  stevedore.  I  used  to  feel  that  my 
manner  of  speech  oscillated  between  that  of  the  cow- 
girl in  a  western  melodrama  and  the  heroine  of  one 
of  my  favorite  G.  P.  R.  James'  romances,  who,  when 
she  went  out  riding,  described  herself  as  "ascending 
her  palfrey."  Betty,  I  noticed,  escaped  the  general 
blight.  She  is  too  nervelessly  unconscious ;  wouldn't 
be  bothered  trying  to  correspond  with  anybody's 
environment. 

I  sat  in  a  Sheraton  chair  and  watched  Mrs.  Ash- 
worth's  hands  as  she  made  tea.  The  prominent  veins 
interested  me.  I  have  heard  that  they  are  an  indi- 
cation of  blue  blood,  and  though  they  are  not  pretty, 
they  suit  Mrs.  Ashworth  as  everything  about  her 
does.  Her  hands  move  deftly  and  without  hurry 
,and  she  never  interrupts  conversation  with  queries 
about  sugar  and  cream.  A  maid,  who  was  neither 
young  nor  old,  pretty  nor  ugly,   an  unobtrusive. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  225 

perfectly  articulated  piece  of  household  machinery, 
made  noiseless  flittings  with  plates.  Mrs.  Ash- 
worth  does  not  like  men  servants.  I  suppose  they  are 
clumsy  and  by  their  large  bulky  shapes  and  gruff 
voices,  disturb  the  rhythm  of  that  beautiful,  mellow, 
subdued  room. 

Presently  I  was  sipping  my  tea  and  looking  at 
Harry  Ferguson  trying  to  sip  his  in  a  perfect  way. 
I  knew  that  he  didn't  like  tea,  would  have  preferred 
a  Scotch  highball,  but  didn't  dare  to  ask  for  it.  He 
spilled  some  on  the  saucer,  then  dropped  the  spoon 
and  had  to  grovel  for  it,  coming  up  red  and  guilty, 
looking  as  if  he  had  been  caught  in  some  shameful 
act  I  could  hear  him  telling  Betty  on  the  way  home 
that  it  was  nonsense  taking  him  to  tea — why  the 
devil  hadn't  she  dropped  him  at  the  club.  And 
Betty,  making  vague  consoling  sounds  while  she 
studied  the  appointments  of  passing  motors. 

Then  suddenly  they  began  to  talk  of  Lizzie  Har- 
ris and  I  forgot  Mrs.  Ashwcrth's  veins  and  Harry's 
embarrassments.  Betty  explained  her  to  our  hostess, 
and  I  sat  looking  into  my  cup  and  listening.  It  was 
what  might  have  been  called  the  popularized  version 
of  a  complicated  subject — Lizzie  as  a  sad  and  chas- 


226  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

tened  neophyte  who  had  failed  in  a  great  under- 
taking and  been  shattered.  Mrs.  Ashworth  was 
softly  sympathetic.     She  turned  to  me. 

"Roger  tells  me  that  she  is  a  charming  person 
and  very  handsome." 

I  agreed. 

* 'Pretty  tough,"  Harry  growled.  Then  abashed 
by  the  rudeness  of  his  tone,  cleared  his  throat  and 
stared  at  Roger  Clements  the  Signer  as  if  he  had 
never  noticed  him  before. 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  Betty,  "if  she  could 
teach  singing.    You  know  she  has  nothing." 

I  became  aware  that  Betty  had  not  come  for 
nothing  to  sit  on  a  Sheraton  chair  and  drink  tea. 
As  usual  she  had  "a  basic  idea".  So  had  Mrs. 
Ashworth — ^two  entirely  dissimilar  minds  had  con- 
verged to  the  same  point. 

"Roger  and  I  were  talking  about  her  the  other 
evening,"  said  Roger's  sister,  "and  I  suggested  that 
there  are  a  great  many  women  teachers  and  their 
standing  is  good,  I  hear." 

On  the  subject  of  the  wage-earning  woman  Mrs. 
Ashworth  is  not  well  informed.  I  fancy  she  has 
admitted  the  fact  that  there  must  be  wage-earning 
women  with  reluctance.    It  would  be  better  for  them 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  227 

all  to  be  In  homes  with  worthy  husbands.  But  it 
has  penetrated  even  to  Mrs.  Ashworth's  sheltered 
corner  that  these  adjuncts  are  not  always  found. 

"We  could  get  her  pupils,"  said  Betty  with  de- 
termination— she  felt  Mrs.  Ashworth's  quality  suffi- 
ciently to  subdue  it — "pupils  among  the  right  sort 
of  people.  And  you  and  I,  and  some  others  I  know, 
could  give  her  a  proper  start.** 

They  talked  on  outlining  a  career  for  Lizzie  as 
a  singing  teacher  of  the  idle  rich.  They  would  put 
her  on  her  feet,  they  would  make  her  more  than 
self-supporting.  Their  combined  social  influence 
extended  over  that  narrow  belt  which  passes  up 
through  Manhattan  Island  like  a  vein  of  gold.  Lizzie 
would  be  placed  in  a  position  to  tap  the  vein. 

If  I  had  suddenly  hurled  the  truth  into  that  benev- 
olent conspiracy,  what  a  transformation!  All  the 
interest  now  centered  round  that  pitiful  figure  would 
dissolve  like  a  morning  mist  and  float  away  to  col- 
lect about  something  more  deserving  and  under- 
standable. If  I  should  represent  her  case  as  suffi- 
ciently desperate  they  would  give  her  money,  but 
that  much  more  valuable  thing  they  were  giving 
now — the  hand  extended  in  fellowship — would  be 
withdrawn  as  from  the  contact  of  a  leper. 


228  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

In  their  case  I  felt  no  obligation  to  tell.  What 
they  were  doing  would  not  hurt  them  and  it  was 
necessary  for  her.  I  came  back  to  the  old  starting 
point — to  help  her,  to  get  her  back  to  where  she 
ought  to  be,  I  must  deceive  and  go  on  deceiving. 
Unquestionably  something  was  wrong  with  my 
world.  If  I  could  only  have  lived  in  Pippa's  or 
fitted  Pippa's  philosophy  to  mine!  But  could  any- 
body? I  wish  Robert  Browning  was  in  my  place, 
sitting  here  to-night  by  the  student  lamp,  half  dead 
trying  to  decide  what  is  the  right  thing  to  do. 

Oh,  Fm  so  tired — and  I  can't  get  away  from  it,  I 
can't  stop  thinking  of  it.  Why  did  they  ever  meet  ? 
Why  did  I  go  down-stairs  that  afternoon  and  bring 
him  up?  Why  did  a  man — cold  and  indifferent — 
suddenly  catch  fire  as  he  had  done?  Why  couldn't 
I  be  left  in  peace?  Why  was  it  he,  my  man,  who 
had  come  to  bring  me  back  to  life  and  joy?  Why? 
why?  why? 


XV 

THINGS  have  been  in  a  state  of  quiescence  for 
the  last  few  days  and  then,  yesterday,  there 
was  a  new  development. 

When  I  say  things  have  been  quiescent,  I  mean 
on  the  outside.  In  the  inside  I  have  been  as  far 
from  quiescent  as  I  ever  was  in  my  life.  That  last 
year  with  Harmon  wasn't  nearly  so  bad  as  this.  It 
was  just  my  own  affair  then.  When  your  heart  is 
breaking  you  can  sit  quiet  and  listen  to  it  cracking 
and  it  doesn't  matter  to  anybody  but  yourself.  It's 
just  a  chance  of  fate  that  you  should  be  a  little  float- 
ing particle  full  of  pain.  The  world  goes  on  the 
same  and  you  don't  matter. 

But  when  other  people's  destinies  are  tangled  up 
in  yours,  when  you  have  to  decide  what's  best  for 
them  with  your  reason  and  your  inclination  pulling 
different  ways — that's  having  trouble  for  your 
shadow  in  the  daytime  and  your  bedfellow  at  night. 
If  I  was  an  indifferent  spectator  who  could  stand 
off  and  study  the  situation  with  an  impartial  eye,  I 

239 


230  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

could  come  to  a  just  decision.  It's  trying  to  lift 
myself  out  of  it  and  be  fair  that's  so  agonizing — it's 
being  afraid  that  I  may  tell  for  my  own  sake,  betray 
Lizzie  to  save  myself. 

There  are  strong,  clear-minded  people  who  could 
think  straight  to  a  conclusion,  take  the  responsi- 
bility and  act,  then  eat  their  dinner  and  go  peace- 
fully to  bed.  I'm  not  one  of  them.  I've  always 
been  the  kind  who  sees  both  sides  and  wavers,  afraid 
if  they  champion  one  they  may  be  unjust  to  the 
other.  Last  night  I  was  thinking  of  the  girl  in 
The  Master  Builder  when  she  tells  the  hero  that 
he  hasn't  "a  robust  conscience."  Then  I  thought 
of  John  Masters  and  how  he  broke  the  fetters  of 
his  own  forging.  They  were  both  right.  I  can  see 
it  and  I  admit  it  but  I  never  would  have  had  the 
courage  to  do  as  they  did.  To  hurt  and  hurt  for 
yourself — no,  I  couldn't. — But  I  must  get  on  to  the 
new  development. 

Betty  came  yesterday  afternoon  and  took  me  for 
a  drive.  Under  normal  circumstances  this  is  one 
of  my  greatest  treats.  To  be  with  Betty  is  always 
good,  and  to  watch  the  glory  of  New  York  on 
parade  while  Betty  explains  charitable  schemes  or 
gives  advice  on  the  best  mode  of  life  for  a  widow 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  231 

of  moderate  means,  has  been  one  of  the  joys  of  the 
winter.  Then  there  were  small  individual  pleasures 
that  I  silently  savored  as  we  glided  along:  the 
springy  softness  of  the  cushions,  the  fine  feel  of  the 
fur  rug,  wonderful  clothes  in  show-windows,  and 
wonderful  clothes  out  of  show-windows  making 
beautiful  ladies  more  beautiful.  And  there  was  an 
experience  that  never  lost  its  zest,  full  of  a  thrilling 
significance:  when  we  all  stopped,  a  block  of  ve- 
hicles from  curb  to  curb,  and  let  the  foot  passengers 
pass.  It  assured  me  we  were  still  a  democracy.  If 
we  had  lived  in  the  days  before  the  French  Revolu- 
tion we'd  have  gone  dashing  along  and  the  foot 
passengers  would  have  had  to  dodge  our  proud 
wheels  at  the  peril  of  their  lives.  Now  we  wait  on 
their  convenience.  I  have  seen  the  whole  traffic 
drawn  up  while  a  tramp  shuffled  across,  while  we 
millionaires — I  am  always  a  millionaire  when  I 
ride  with  Betty — sat  back  and  were  patient.  I  have 
always  hoped  Thomas  Jefferson  was  somewhere 
where  he  could  look  down  and  see. 

Yesterday  all  joy  and  interest  were  gone  from  it. 
Odd  how  our  inward  vision  gives  the  color  to  ex- 
ternals; how,  when  our  spirit  is  darkened,  the  sun 
gets  dim  and  the  sky  less  blue.    We  paint  the  world 


232  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

ourselv-es.  I  remember  after  my  mother  died  that 
for  a  long  time  all  nature  looked  gray  and  my  close 
cozy  intimacy  with  it  was  suddenly  gone.  But,  that's 
another  story. 

Betty  lifted  me  out  of  a  depressed  silence  by  a 
suggestion ;  she  said  it  had  been  germinating  in  her 
mind  since  Sunday.  Wouldn't  it  be  better,  instead 
of  starting  her  as  teacher,  to  send  Lizzie  Harris  to 
Europe  for  several  years  to  go  on  with  her  studies? 

"She  oughtn't  to  give  up  all  she's  done,  and  teach- 
ing singing  when  you've  expected  to  be  a  prima 
donna  yourself,  isn't  a  very  exhilarating  prospect." 

It  was  so  like  Betty!  Always  thinking  of  some- 
thing just  a  little  bit  better.  Mrs.  Ashworth  never 
would  have  got  beyond  the  teaching  and  it  had  taken 
Roger  and  Betty  to  get  her  that  far.  I  straightened 
up  and  felt  that  the  afternoon  was  brightening. 

"It*s  too  early  for  her  to  throw  it  up,"  Betty  went 
on.  "She  hasn't  given  it  a  fair  trial.  She  gets  one 
setback  and  an  illness  and  then  says  it's  over.  I 
don't  believe  it  is  and  I  want  to  give  her  another 
chance." 

"But" — ^to  keep  square  with  myself  I  had  to  bring 
up  difficulties — "she  declares  she'll  never  sing 
again." 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  233 

*'0h,  rubbish!  We  all  declare  we'll  never  do 
things  again.  Harry  and  I  had  a  fight  last  autumn 
and  /  declared  Fd  never  speak  to  him  again,  and  I 
was  speaking — and  glad  to  do  it — in  two  hours/' 

"Your  husband's  not  your  profession." 

"No,  my  dear,"  said  Betty  with  a  smile,  "but  my 
marriage  is,  and  being  a  successful  wife  is  not  so 
very  different  from  being  a  successful  prima  donna. 
I  tell  you  this  is  all  nonsense  about  her  refusing  to 
go  on.  She's  cut  out  for  the  stage.  The  opera 
bores  me  to  death.  I'd  never  go  if  it  wasn't  for  my 
two  strings  of  pearls  and  the  prohibitive  price  of  the 
box.  But  I  really  think,  if  she  was  in  it,  I  could 
stand  even  Tristan  and  Isolde." 

I  looked  out  of  the  window — ^wonderful  how  the 
gay  animation  of  the  street  had  come  back.  And 
it  was  Betty's  idea  and  Betty  was  generally  right. 

"I  could  suggest  it  to  her,"  I  said. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  intend  you  to  do,  and  as 
soon  as  possible.  I  hate  things  dangling  on.  Make 
it  perfectly  plain  to  her:  I'll  undertake  the  whole 
matter,  give  her  as  long  a  time  as  she  needs  with 
any  teacher  she  chooses.  And  don't  you  see  if  she's 
taken  out  of  this  place  where  she's  had  the  failure 
and  been  so  discouraged,  she'll  take  a  fresh  hold? 


234  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

It'll  be  a  new  start  in  new  surroundings,  and  she'll 
feel  like  a  new  person." 

The  most  sensitively  self-questioning  woman  must 
have  admitted  the  force  of  the  argument.  If  Betty's 
previous  efforts  to  play  the  god  in  the  machine  had 
been  ill-inspired,  this  time  she  redeemed  herself. 

''Very  well,"  I  said  cheerfully.  "As  Mrs.  Stre- 
gazzi  would  say,  I'll  'take  it  up  with  her'  this 
evening." 

Betty  took  me  home  and  I  ran  up  the  stairs.  I 
was  like  a  child  hastening  to  impart  joyful  tidings. 
Lizzie  was  in  her  kitchen  occupied  over  household 
affairs.  A  glass  lamp  turned  too  high,  stood  on  a 
shelf,  the  delicate  skein  of  smoke  rising  from  its 
chimney,  painting  a  dusky  circle  on  the  ceiling.  The 
gas,  also  too  high,  rushed  from  its  burner  in  a  torn 
flame  that  leaped  and  hissed  like  a  live  thing  caught 
and  in  pain.  Lizzie,  being  well  enough  to  attend  to 
her  own  needs,  the  place  was  once  more  in  chaos.  I 
turned  down  the  lamp  and  the  gas,  shut  off  the  sink 
faucet,  which  was  noisily  dribbling,  and  lifting  a 
pie  from  the  one  wooden  chair,  put  it  on  the  ice-box 
and  sat  down  to  impart  my  news. 

She  listened  without  interruption,  leaning  against 
the  wash-tub. 


THE    BOOK    OF.    EVELYN  235 

"Well?"  I  said,  as  she  didn't  speak.  My  voice 
was  sharp,  her  silence  got  on  my  nerves. 

"To  go  to  Europe  and  study,"  she  said  dreamily, 
"that's  been  the  dream  of  my  life." 

"Well,  your  dream's  come  true,  Lizzie!"  I  jumped 
up  ready  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and  hug  her.  "You 
can  go  as  soon  as  your  trunk's  packed." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It's  too  late  now." 

"Too  late!"  I  fell  back  from  her,  unbelieving, 
aghast — "What  do  you  mean?" 

Her  face  bore  an  expression  of  sad  renounce- 
ment. 

"The  dream's  over,  I'm  awake." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  refuse.*' 

She  gravely  nodded. 

"But,  Lizzie,  think,  listen.  You  don't  realize  what 
a  chance  this  is.  Any  teacher  you  may  choose, 
for  as  long  as  you  like,  all  worry  about  money  over. 
I  know  Mrs.  Ferguson,  she's  never  attempted  any- 
thing that  she  hasn't  carried  through — " 

I  launched  forth  into  a  eulogy  of  Betty,  and 
branched  from  that  into  a  list  of  the  advantages  ac- 
cruing to  the  object  of  her  bounty,  holding  them  up, 
viewing  them  from  all  sides  like  choice  articles  I 


236  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

was  offering  for  sale.  I  was  eloquent,  I  was  per- 
suasive, I  introduced  irrefutable  arguments.  Any 
other  woman  standing  with  reluctant  feet  on  the 
verge  of  such  an  enterprise,  would  have  ceased  to 
be  reluctant  and  leaped  toward  the  future  I  pic- 
tured. 

But  Lizzie  was  immovable.  I  saw  my  words  fly- 
ing off  her  as  if  they  were  bird-shot  striking  on  an 
armored  cruiser.  She  had  only  one  reason  for  re- 
fusing but  that  was  beyond  the  power  of  words  to 
shake — she  had  given  up  her  career  as  a  singer; 
nothing  would  ever  make  her  return  to  it. 

I  sank  down  on  the  wooden  chair,  my  head  on  my 
breast,  despair  claiming  me.  She  went  about  the 
kitchen  in  a  vague  incompetent  way  picking  things 
up  and  putting  them  down,  then  suddenly  wanting 
them  and  forgetting  where  they  were.  As  she  trailed 
about  she  drove  home  her  refusal  with  a  series  of 
disconnected  sentences,  bubbles  of  thought  rising 
to  occasional  speech.  I  didn^t  answer  her,  sitting 
crumpled  on  the  chair — until  she  had  refused,  I 
hadn't  realized  how  much  I  had  hoped. 

Presently  she  swept  into  the  back  room,  carrying 
a  pile  of  plates  with  the  air  of  an  empress  bearing 
the  royal  insignia.     I  heard  her  setting  them  on 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  237 

the  dining-table  and  then  a  rattle  of  silver.  She 
came  back  and  hunted  about,  feeling  on  shelves  and 
opening  cupboard  doors,  then  said,  in  the  deep  tones 
made  for  the  great  tragic  roles : 

*'Evie,  there  was  a  lemon  pie  somewhere  around 
here.    You're  not  sitting  on  it  by  any  chance?'* 

Filled  with  misery  I  indicated  the  pie  on,  the  top 
of  the  ice-box.  In  the  pursuit  of  her  domestic  duties 
she  had  thrown  a  dish-cloth  over  it.  She  removed 
the  cloth,  and  picking  up  the  pie,  looked  it  over 
solicitously. 

"You're  going  to  sup  with  me  to-night  and  eat 
this." 

The  bitter  appropriativeness  of  Lizzie  feeding  me 
on  lemon  pie  pierced  through  my  anguish — I 
laughed.  I  laughed  with  a  loud  strident  note,  lean- 
ing my  head  back  against  the  wall  and  looking  at 
the  smoke  mark  on  the  ceiling.  Lizzie,  pie  in  hand, 
stood  looking  at  me  in  majestic  surprise. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

**My  thoughts.  They're  very  funny — ^you  and  I, 
sitting  up  here  alone  and  carousing  on  lemon  pie." 

"We're  not  going  to  be  alone.  Mr.  Clements  is 
coming.  I  asked  him  to  supper  and  when  he  looked 
uncertain  tempted  him  by  saying  you'd  be  here." 


22,^  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Roger  and  I  eating  lemon  pie,  dispensed  by 
Lizzie — now  the  gods  were  laughing,  too. 

"I  can't  come,"  I  said  sulkily. 

She  looked  utterly  dismayed,  as  if  she  had  heard 
a  piece  of  news  too  direful  to  believe.  If  it  had  been 
any  one  but  Lizzie  Harris  I  should  have  said  she 
was  going  to  cry. 

"Not  come!    Why  not?" 

"Mightn't  I  have  an  engagement?" 

"You  haven't.  I  asked  you  if  you  had  this 
morning." 

"I  have  a  headache." 

She  put  the  pie  on  the  wash-tub  with  a  distracted 
gesture,  and  began  beseechingly,  her  head  tilted  to- 
ward her  shoulder,  eyes  and  mouth  pleading; 

"Ah,  now,  Evie,  don't  have  a  headache.  The  party 
was  to  be  a  surprise  for  you.  I've  been  getting  it 
together  all  afternoon.  And  I  ordered  the  pie 
especially.  Please  feel  well.  Mr.  Clements  has  been 
so  good  to  me  and  I  wanted  to  return  his  kindness 
and  I  knew  he  wouldn't  enjoy  it  half  so  much  if 
you  weren't  here." 

I  know  every  word  was  genuine.  I  believe  she 
is  still  ignorant  of  Roger's  feeling  for  her.  One 
of  the  things  I  have  often  noticed  about  her  is  that 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  239 

she  seems  unconscious  of,  or  indifferent  to,  her  at- 
traction for  men.  I  have  never  heard  her  speak  of 
it  or  seen  her  show  any  pleasure  in  it.  Small  co- 
quettes and  flirts,  the  women  who  make  a  study  of 
charming,  can  not  hide  their  pride  of  conquest,  love 
to  recount  the  havoc  they  have  wrought.  There  is 
none  of  that  in  Lizzie.  Sometimes  I  have  thought 
she  is  so  used  to  admiration  that  she  accepts  it  as  a 
part  of  her  life,  like  the  sunshine  or  the  rain. 
Roger,  as  "a  kind  man,*'  is  just  lumped  in  with 
the  count  and  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Hamilton.  And 
with  her  blindness  to  other  people's  claims  she 
makes  no  inquiry,  takes  no  notice  of  the  humbler 
romances  of  the  rest  of  us.  She  has  never  said  a 
word  to  me  about  Roger  as  my  friend.  If  she  has 
ever  given  it  a  thought  she  has  ticketed  him  as  just 
"a  kind  man"  to  me  also. 

I  lay  back  in  the  wooden  chair  and  stared  at  her 
with  a  haggard  glance. 

"Do  you  like  Mr.  Clements,  Lizzie,"  I  said  sol- 
emnly. 

She  nodded,  then  reached  for  the  pie  and  began 
touching  its  surface  with  the  tip  of  a  finger. 

*' Immensely.  I  don't  see  how  any  one  could  help 
it.    He's  so  kind." 


240  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Her  attention  was  concentrated  on  what  she  held. 
She  scrutinized  it  as  if  it  were  a  treasure  in  which 
she  searched  for  a  possible  flaw. 

"He's  more  than  kind,"  I  answered.  Even  in  my 
misery  I  felt  a  tinge  of  irritation  that  she  should 
accept  Roger's  homage  as  if  he  was  of  no  more 
value  than  the  count  or  the  doctor. 

"Of  course  he  is,"  she  replied.  "He's  so  in- 
tellectual. And  then  he  has  such  lovely  manners. 
I  think  he's  more  of  a  gentleman  than  any  man  I've 
ever  known." 

I  thought  of  Masters.  Was  she  in  her  mind  com- 
paring them?  If  she  was  there  was  no  sign  of  it 
in  her  face.  She  murmured  a  commendatory  phrase 
of  the  pie,  and  holding  it  off  on  the  palm  of  an  out- 
spread hand,  carried  it  into  the  back  room. 

I  sat  on  the  wooden  chair  staring  after  her.  Did 
she  care  for  Roger?  Was  she  going  to  transfer  her 
Incomprehensible  affections  to  him  ?  It  was  a  hideous 
thought.  She  came  back  and  swept  about,  collect- 
ing the  feast,  and  my  dazed  eyes  followed  her.  How 
could  she  do  such  a  thing  unless  she  was  so  lacking 
in  a  central  core  of  character  that  she  was  nothing 
but  the  shell  of  a  woman? 

It  was  a  queer  scrappy  meal,  most  of  it  sent  round 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  241 

from  the  delicatessen  store  on  Lexington  Avenue. 
Such  as  it  was  the  hostess  offered  it  with  as  smiling 
an  aplomb  as  if  Delmonico's  head  chef  had  produced 
it  in  an  inspired  moment.  No  qualm  that  her  chief 
guest  might  not  enjoy  ham  and  beer  disturbed  her 
gracious  serenity.  Petronius  Arbiter  treating  his 
emperor  to  a  gastronomic  orgy,  could  not  have  rec- 
ommended the  nightingale's  tongues  more  confident- 
ly than  Lizzie  did  the  canned  asparagus,  bought  at 
a  discount. 

That  Roger  enjoyed  it  was  evident.  I  don't  sup- 
pose he  had  ever  been  at  a  supper  where  the  ladies 
waited  and  sometimes,  when  the  plates  ran  short, 
washed  them  between  courses.  Lizzie's  inexpertness 
caused  continuous  breaks  in  the  progress  of  the  feast 
— important  items  overlooked,  consultations  as  to  the 
proper  order  of  the  viands,  an  unexpected  shortage 
of  small  silver.  Before  we  had  got  to  the  canned 
asparagus,  I  found  myself  assuming  the  manage- 
ment. Roger  rising  and  pursuing  an  aimless  search 
for  the  beer  opener,  and  Lizzie  making  rapid  futile 
gropings  for  it  in  the  backs  of  drawers  and  the  bot- 
toms of  bowls,  was  distracting  to  my  orderly  sense. 
They  couldn't  find  it  anywhere.  They  had  too 
much  to  say,  got  in  each  other's  way,  forgot  to  hunt 


242  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

and  stood  laughing,  while  I  took  up  the  search  and 
ran  it  to  earth  on  a  nail  in  the  kitchen. 

After  that  the  party  shifted  its  base  entirely  and 
became  mine.  They  were  glad  to  relinquish  it  to 
me,  took  their  seats  with  the  air  of  those  who  know 
an  uncongenial  task  has  found  the  proper  hands.  I 
directed  it,  grimly  attentive,  and  it  was  not  the  least 
of  my  pain  that  I  saw  they  thought  I  was  pleased  to 
do  so.  If  I  had  ever  done  any  one  a  deadly  wrong 
he  would  have  been  avenged  had  he  seen  me — 
making  things  pleasant  for  Roger  and  Lizzie,  min- 
istering to  their  creature  comfort,  too  engrossed 
in  my  labors  to  join  in.  I  was  the  chaperon,  I  was 
the  maiden  aunt,  I  was  Mrs.  Grundy. 

When  we  reached  the  last  course  I  found  that  the 
coffee  machine  had  not  been  emptied  of  the  morn- 
ing's dregs  and  took  it  into  the  kitchen,  while  Lizzie 
put  the  pie  on  the  table.  From  my  place  at  the  sink 
I  could  see  it,  a  foamy  surface  of  beaten-egg,  glis- 
tening against  the  white  expanse  of  cloth.  Lizzie 
was  proud  of  her  pie  and  refused  my  offer  to  cut 
it.  She  held  the  knife  poised  for  a  deliberating 
moment,  then  sliced  carefully,  while  Roger  watched 
from  across  the  table  and  I  from  beside  the  sink. 
She  cut  a  piece  for  me  and  put  it  at  my  place,  then 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  243 

one  for  Roger.  Leaning  from  her  seat  she  handed 
him  the  plate  and  he  took  it,  the  circle  of  porcelain 
joining  their  hands.  Over  it  he  looked  at  her  with 
shining  passion-lit  eyes. 

To  me,  watching  from  that  squalid  kitchen,  their 
outstretched  arms  were  symbolic  of  their  attitude 
one  to  the  other,  the  piece  of  pie,  a  love  potion  she 
was  offering.  It  was  "Isolde"  holding  out  the  cup  to 
"Tristan".  Probably  any  one  reading  this  will 
laugh.  Believe  me,  in  that  moment,  I  tasted  the  ful- 
ness of  despair — that  darkening  of  the  dear  bright 
world,  that  concentrating  of  all  the  pain  one  can  feel 
into  one  consummate  pang. 


XVI 

I  AM  convinced  now.  Roger  loves  her.  Until 
that  supper  I  had  ups  and  downs — ^times  when 
I  felt  unsure,  hours  when  I  argued  myself  into  the 
belief  that  I  was  mistaken.  But  when  I  came  down 
to  my  rooms  that  night  my  uncertainties  were  ended. 
As  I  lay  in  the  dark  I  saw  everything  as  clear  as 
crystal.  It  seemed  as  if  I  was  clairvoyant,  caught 
up  above  myself,  the  whole  situation  visualized  be- 
fore me  like  a  picture. 

Since  then  there's  been  only  one  question — what 
ought  I  to  do? 

Apart  from  my  own  feeling  for  Roger — sup- 
posing he  was  only  the  friend  he  used  to  be — should 
I  let  him  give  his  heart  and  his  name  to  a  woman, 
whom,  if  he  knew  the  truth,  he  would  put  away  from 
him  like  a  leper?  Every  ideal  and  instinct  that 
make  up  the  sum  of  his  being  would  revolt,  if  he 
knew  about  Lizzie  and  John  Masters.  I  know  this, 
I  don't  just  think  it  because  I  want  to.  According 
to  his  code  all  women  must  be  chaste  and  all  men 

244 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  245 

honest,  and  if  they're  not,  he  doesn't  want  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  them.  It  may  not  be  generous, 
but  that's  not  to  the  point.  He  is  so  made  and  so  will 
remain.  He  has  been  kinder  to  me  than  any  one  in 
the  world — kind  and  just,  as  far  as  he  knew.  Should 
I,  who  could  prevent  it,  stand  by  and  watch  him — 
the  illustration  isn't  flattering  but  it's  apt — rushing 
toward  the  precipice  like  the  Gadarene  swine? 

And  then  Lizzie  is  entirely  unfitted  to  be  the  wife 
of  such  a  man.  She  belongs  to  another  world  that 
he  doesn't  understand  and  couldn't  tolerate.  He 
would  think  the  people  she  foregathers  with  were 
savages.  He  hasn't  seen  her  with  them,  he  doesn't 
know  how  blind  she  Is  to  the  niceties  of  manners 
and  breeding  that  to  him  are  essentials.  I  try  to 
fit  her  into  his  environment,  put  her  up  in  a  niche 
beside  Mrs.  Ashworth — Lizzie,  with  her  tempests, 
her  careless  insults,  her  impossible  friends!  Sup- 
pose there  had  never  been  any  John  Masters,  that 
she  was  as  pure  as  Diana,  could  she  ever  be  tamed 
to  the  Clements*  standard  ? 

Memories  of  her  keep  coming  up,  throwing 
oranges  out  of  the  window,  listening  hungrily  to 
Mrs.  Stregazzi  (fancy  Mrs.  Stregazzi  at  Mrs.  Ash- 
. worth's  tea  table  talking  about  her  corsets  and  her 


246  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

cigarettes!)  facing  Masters  like  an  enraged  lioness, 
weeping  against  his  shoulder  and  pleading  with  him 
to  come  back.  Good  heavens,  if  no  man  had  even 
touched  her  hand  except  in  the  clasp  of  friendship, 
she  is  not  the  woman  for  Roger.  And  she  lived, 
willingly,  proudly,  without  a  twinge  of  conscience, 
with  John  Masters! 

Thaf  s  one  side  and  here's  the  other : 

Lizzie's  happiness,  Lizzie  placed  beyond  all  need, 
Lizzie  the  wife  of  a  man  so  high-thinking  and  right- 
doing  that  everything  in  her  that  was  fine  must 
answer  to  his  call.  Under  his  influence  she  might 
change,  become  what  he  now  imagines  her  to  be. 
Women  have  done  that  often,  grown  to  love  the 
man  they  marry  and  molded  themselves  to  his 
ideal.  Have  I  the  right  to  stand  between  her  and 
such  a  future,  bar  the  way  to  Eden,  an  angel  with 
a  flaming  sword? 

I  can't 

In  utter  abandon  she  told  me  the  story  that  I  can 
now  use  against  her.  She  trusted  me  and  I  answered 
her  trust  with  a  promise  that  I  would  never  tell, 
unless  she  asked  me  to.  It  Is  true  that  she  said  she 
didn't  care  if  I  did  tell.  But  does  It  matter  what  she 
said?    Wouldn't  I,  if  I  used  the  permission  given 


THE    BOOK    OE   EVELYN  247 

in  sickness  of  heart  and  body,  be  meaner  than  the 
meanest  thing  that  crawls?  Am  I  to  buy,  my  hap- 
piness at  such  a  price  ? 

I  can't. 

If  she  still  had  her  career  it  would  be  different. 
I  could  see  her  going  forward  in  it,  certain  it  was 
the  best  thing  for  her.  But  her  career  is  over.  She 
is  to  settle  down  as  a  singing  teacher,  plod  on  pa- 
tiently, watch  others  making  for  the  goal  that  was 
once  to  be  hers.  She  can't  do  it  any  more  than  she 
can  fly. 

If  I  thought  that  she  was  vicious,  bad  at  heart, 
I  would  be  certain  I  ought  to  tell.  But  with  all  her 
faults  she  is  generous,  kindly  and  honest.  It's  her 
chance — the  one  chance  that  comes  to  all  of  us.  Is 
it  my  business  to  take  It  from  her,  to  Interfere,  with 
my  flaming  sword,  and  say,  '*No,  this  Is  not  for  you. 
You  have  committed  the  woman's  unpardonable  sin. 
If  you  don't  feel  the  proper  remorse  it  will  be  my 
place  to  punish  you,  to  shut  you  out  from  the  possi- 
bilities of  redemption.  Whatever  you  may  think 
about  it,  /  think  that  you  belong  In  the  corral  with 
the  goats  and  I'm  going  to  do  all  in  my  power  to 
keep  you  there"? 

I  can't. 


248  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

And  so  I  go  on,  round  and  round  like  a  squirrel 
in  a  cage.  I  wonder  if  the  squirrel  ever  feels  as 
I  do. 

They  come  in  to  see  me  and  say  I  look  ill.  Roger 
is  particularly  solicitous,  wants  me  to  go  south  for 
a  month  with  Mrs.  Ashworth.  I  could  no  more 
leave  this  place,  and  the  spectacle  of  his  infatuation, 
than  I  could  tell  him  what  is  making  me  hollow- 
eyed  and  wan. 

One  of  the  bitterest  of  my  thoughts  is  that  I  know 
— an  instinct  tells  me — he  is  really  still  fondest  of 
me.  I  am  and  always  will  be  the  better  woman  for 
him,  the  one  that  in  the  storm  and  stress  of  a  life's 
companionship,  is  his  true  mate.  His  feeling  for 
Lizzie  is  a  temporary  aberration.  He  has  been  be- 
witched— La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  has  him  in 
thrall.  Some  day  he  will  wake  from  the  dream — 
and  then?  He  will  find  Lizzie  beside  him,  La 
Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  directing  the  domestic 
regime,  tactfully  accommodating  herself  to  his 
moods,  taking  the  place  of  the  undistinguished  wife 
of  a  distinguished  husband. 

Oh — why  do  I  write  like  this!  It's  low,  con- 
temptible, vile.  Vm  going  to  stop.  Vm  going  to 
bow  my  head  and  say  it's  done  and  give  up. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  249 

I  wrote  that  two  days  ago,  pressed  the  blotter 
over  it  and  said  to  myself,  "The  squirrel  has  had 
enough.    It's  going  to  lie  down  in  its  cage." 

To-night — it's  past  midnight  and  a  big  moon  is 
shining  on  the  back  walls — I  begin  with  a  new  pen 
on  a  fresh  sheet  to  show  how  the  squirrel  didn't 
stop.     Poor  ridiculous,  demented  squirrel ! 

There  is  a  sort  of  grotesque  humor  about  it,  I 
can  stand  off  and  laugh  at  myself. 

This  afternoon  the  count  came  in  to  see  me  with 
news.  His  people  have  sent  for  him  to  go  back  to 
Rome. 

"Have  you  already  learned  the  banking  business 
as  conducted  in  America?"  I  inquired.  I'm  not  so 
sympathetic  as  I  used  to  be  but  the  count  doesn't 
seem  to  notice  it. 

He  took  a  cigarette  and  answered  with  delibera- 
tion: 

"I  have  now,  for  four  months,  pasted  letters  in 
a  book.  It  seems  that  I  am  to  go  on  forever  pasting 
letters  in  a  book.  I  wrote  it  to  my  father  and  he 
sends  me  an  answer  saying,  'My  son,  you  can  paste 
letters  in  a  book  as  well  in  Rome  as  in  New  York. 
Come  back  at  once.  I  find  this  pasting  too  ex- 
pensive r " 


250  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  expressed  fitting  regrets  at  this  paternal  inter- 
ference. 

"It  is  with  great  sorrow  that  I  leave,"  said  the 
count  sadly,  "I  have  made  many  charming  friends 
here." 

He  removed  his  cigarette  and  bowed  to  me.  I 
inclined  my  head.  Our  mutual  lack  of  spirits  did 
not  prevent  us  from  being  extremely  polite. 

"You,  dear  madame,  have  been  sweetly  kind  to 
the  exile.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  your  ever  beautiful  sympathy." 

I  made  deprecating  murmurs. 

"A  young  man  like  myself,  a  romantic,  must  have 
a  confidante,  one  who  feels  and  understands,  one 
who  has  lived."  I  bowed  again  in  melancholy  ad- 
mission of  the  fact.     "It  will  be  hard  to  go." 

He  looked  really  troubled.  His  handsome  warm- 
ly-tinted face  wore  an  expression  of  gravity  that 
made  him  seem  much  older.  His  eyes,  usually  alert 
and  full  of  laughter,  were  wistfully  dejected. 

"I  have  loved  her,"  he  said  quietly. 

For  the  first  time  in  our  acquaintance  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  count  was  speaking  from  that  center 
of  feeling  that  we  call  the  heart.    He  appeared  no 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  251 

longer  an  irresponsible,  almost  elfish  youth,  but  a 
man  who,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  had  lived.  I 
was  impressed. 

"Have  you  told  her?"  1  asked. 

He  shook  his  head  murmuring: 

"I  decide  to  and  I  put  it  off.  It  is  too  hard.  I 
fear  what  I  may  say." 

A  sudden  idea  took  possession  of  me.  Writing 
it  down  in  cold  blood  it  sounds  like  the  deranged 
fancy  of  a  lunatic.  At  the  moment  when  it  came,  I 
regarded  it  not  only  as  a  possible  solution  of  all  our 
difficulties,  but  as  an  inspiration.  My  only  excuse 
is  that  self-preservation  Is  the  law  of  nature.  I  was 
drowning  and  I  caught  at  a  straw. 

"Do  you  really  love  Lizzie  Harris?"  I  asked  in 
a  voice  tense  to  the  trembling  point. 

"Very  really." 

"More  than  that  other  lady,  the  thin  one  who  wore 
the  fur  dress?" 

"Much  more." 

"More  than  any  woman  you  have  ever  known?" 

"A  hundred  times  more." 

We  must  have  presented  an  absurdly  solemn  ap- 
pearance, I  planting  my  questions  like  a  detective 


252  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

administering  the  third  degree,  the  count  nodding 
automatically  as  he  jerked  out  his  answers,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  me  with  an  almost  fierce  stare. 

**Why  don't  you  marry  her?" 

That  was  my  inspiration.  It  seems  to  me  the  most 
inexplicable  aberration  that  ever  seized  a  sane 
woman — only  for  the  moment  I  wasn't  sane.  One  of 
the  curious  points  about  it  was  that  I  never  thought 
of  Lizzie  at  all,  whether  she  would  want  him  or  not. 
All  I  saw  was  the  count  transformed  into  a  genie, 
unexpectedly  come  to  my  aid.  I  make  no  doubt  if 
she  had  shown  reluctance  I  would  have  counseled 
him  to  kidnap  her  as  his  ancestors  kidnaped  the 
Sabine  women. 

His  expression  brought  me  back  to  sense.  He 
was  looking  at  me  with  a  blank  unbelieving  surprise 
as  if  I  had  suggested  something  beyond  the  limits 
of  human  endeavor.  If  I  had  urged  him  to  in- 
augurate a  conspiracy  against  his  king  or  an  explor- 
ing party  to  the  moon,  he  could  not  have  appeared 
more  astonished. 

"Marry  her!"  he  ejaculated. 

"Yes,  marry  her.  You  love  her,  you've  just 
said  so." 

"Most  assuredly  I  do,  to  distraction." 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  253 

"Then  why  do  you  look  so  surprised?" 

"But  marriage — me?'*  He  laid  a  finger  on  his 
breast  and  tapped  on  the  top  button  of  his  waistcoat, 
regarding  me  from  beneath  raised  brows.  His  ex- 
pression was  that  of  an  intelligent  person  who  can 
not  believe  that  he  has  heard  aright.  It  made  me 
angry. 

"Yes,  you.  I  could  hardly  be  alluding  to  any- 
body else  after  what  youVe  just  said." 

"But,  my  dear  lady — "  he  sent  a  roving  glance 
round  the  room  as  if  hunting  for  some  one  who 
would  explain,  then  came  back  to  me.  As  he  met 
my  eyes  he  smiled,  deprecatingly,  almost  tenderly, 
the  smile  with  which  maturity  greets  the  prepos- 
terous antics  of  a  child.    "Is  it  a  joke  you  make?" 

"No,  it  is  not,"  I  answered,  "and  I  don't  see  why 
you  should  think  it  was.  When  you  love  a  person 
you  marry  them,  don't  you?" 

"Alas,  not  always.  I  could  never  marry  Miss 
Harris.     She  is  not  of  my  order." 

"Order?"    I  was  the  one  who  ejaculated  now. 

"Exactly.  Whomever  I  may  love  I  only  marry 
in  my  order." 

My  inspiration  collapsed,  pierced  by  this  unex- 
pected and  unfamiliar  word.    For  a  moment  we  sat 


254  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

regarding  each  other.  I  don't  know  how  I  looked 
but  I  don't  think  it  could  have  been  as  abject  as  I 
felt  or  the  count,  who  is  one  of  the  most  amiable 
of  youths,  would  have  wanted  to  know  what  was  the 
matter.  If  I  had  had  my  wits  about  me  I  should 
have  pretended  it  was  a  joke  but  I  was  too  ashamed 
and  crushed  to  pretend  anything.  In  the  embarrass- 
ing pause  I  tried  to  smile,  a  feeble  propitiatory 
smile,  which  he  answered  in  kind,  brightly  and  re- 
assuringly. I  saw  he  expected  me  to  go  on,  and  I 
didn't  know  how  to  go  on  except  to  argue  it  out 
with  him. 

"What  does  your  order  matter  if  you  love  a 
person?" 

"But  everything.  It  is,  as  you  say  here,  what 
we're  there  for." 

"But  you  do  marry  out  of  your  class.  Italian 
nobles  have  married  American  women  who  were 
without  family." 

He  gave  a  gay  smile,  jerking  his  head  with  a  little 
agreeing  movement  toward  his  shoulder : 

"Ah,  truly,  yes,  but  with  fortunes — large  for- 
tunes. We  need  them,  we  have  not  got  the  huge 
moneys  in  Italy  that  you  have  here.  But  the  adora- 
ble Miss  Harris  has  nothing.    Figure  to  yourself, 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  255 

Mrs.  Drake;  she  must  work  for  her  living.  If  I  come 
home  to  my  father  with  a  story  like  that,  what  hap- 
pens? He  is  enraged,  he  turns  me  out — and  then  / 
have  to  work  for  my  living."  He  gave  a  delightful 
boyish  laugh.  ''At  what? — ^pasting  letters  in  a 
book?    That  is  all  I  know." 

''Foreigners  are  very  hard  for  Americans  to  un- 
derstand," I  muttered,  wondering  if  any  foreigner 
of  any  race  would  ever  have  understood  why  a  re- 
spectable American  widow  should  offer  her  friend 
in  marriage  to  an  unwilling  Italian  count 

He  leaned  from  his  chair,  pointing  the  smoking 
cigarette  at  me.  His  melancholy  had  vanished.  He 
was  a  boy  again,  a  light-hearted  Latin  boy,  in- 
trigued and  amused  at  the  sentimental  point  of  view 
obtaining  under  the  stars  and  stripes. 

"It  is  you  who  are  hard  for  us  to  understand- 
so  loving  money  and  so  loving  love.  And  which 
you  like  the  best  we  can't  find  out.  For  us  one  is 
here  and  one  is  there."  He  pointed  with  the  cigar- 
ette to  two  opposite  corners  of  the  room.  "Miss  Har- 
ris I  adore  but  I  do  not  marry  her."  He  planted  his 
romance  in  the  left-hand  corner  with  a  jab  of  his 
cigarette.  "And  I  marry  a  lady  whom  I  may  not 
love,  but  who  has  fortune  and  who  is  of  my  class." 


256  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

He  planted  her  in  the  opposite  corner  with  a  second 
jab.  *They  are  so  far  apart."  And  he  waved  the 
cigarette  between  the  two,  with  a  sweep  wide  enough 
to  indicate  the  distance  that  severed  sentiment  from 
obligation. 

That  was  the  end  of  it.  I  pulled  myself  together 
and  led  the  conversation  into  a  comparison  of  na- 
tional characteristics.  I  don't  know  what  he  thought 
of  me,  probably  that  I  was  a  horrible  example  of 
what  can  be  produced  by  a  romance-ridden  country. 

When  I  think  of  it  now  (if  I  cared  a  farthing 
what  happened  to  me)  I  would  be  quite  scared.  I 
wonder  if  I've  inherited  a  queer  strain  from  any  of 
my  forebears.  They  don't  look  like  it,  but  you  can't 
tell  from  portraits  and  miniatures.  In  their  days 
it  was  the  fashion  to  paint  out  all  discreditable  char- 
acteristics as,  in  ours,  it  is  the  highest  merit  to  paint 
them  in.  Could  it  be  possible  that  one  of  those  pop- 
eyed,  tight-mouthed  women  ever  swerved  from  *'a 
sweet  reasonableness"  and  bequeathed  the  tendency 
to  me?  I've  read  somewhere  that  while  the  inclina- 
tion to  wrong- doing  may  not  be  transmitted,  the 
weakened  will  can  pass  on.  Is  my  lunacy  of  to-day, 
my  distracted  waverings,  my  temptations  to  dis- 
loyalty, the  result  of  some  one  else's  lapse  from  the 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  257 

normal?  (The  lamp's  going  out.  With  the  room 
getting  dim  I  can  see  the  moonlight  in  a  clear  wash 
of  silver  on  the  windows.)  It  wasn't  the  little 
Huguenot  lady.  But  her  husband  opposite,  the  for- 
midable Puritan  in  the  wig,  was  one  of  the  jury 
who  condemned  the  witches.  That  may  be  it.  His 
cruelty  is  coming  back  to  be  paid  for  by  his  descend- 
ant— the  poor  old  witches  are  getting  even  at  last. 
Perhaps  my  descendants  will  some  day  writhe  in 
atonement  for  my  faults.  But  I  have  no  descend- 
ants!   I  never  will  have. 

It's  the  lamp's  last  sputter — going  out  as  I'm  go- 
ing out.  In  a  minute  it  will  be  dark,  with  the  moon- 
light filling  the  gulfs  of  the  backyards  and  I,  alone 
in  the  night,  listening  to  the  stillness,  wondering 
if  I  was  only  created  to  be  an  expiatory  offering. 


XVII 

As  soon  as  Betty  heard  that  the  European  offer 
/  \  was  refused  she  turned  her  attention  to  the 
lessons.  Bustling  about,  making  appointments,  talk- 
ing over  reluctant  mothers,  forcing  people  to  study 
singing  who  never  thought  of  doing  so,  she  is  an 
inspiring  sight  to  everybody  but  the  object  of  her 
campaign. 

Lizzie  makes  me  uneasy.  She  has  shown  no  en- 
thusiasm, taking  it  all  for  granted  as  though  busy 
ladies  could  not  better  employ  their  time  than  by 
helping  her  to  fortune.  Betty  thinks  it  timidity, 
that  she  is  distrustful  of  herself.  I  know  better. 
Her  languor  conceals  a  dreary  disinclination.  She 
has  never  said  a  word  of  thanks  to  Betty  or  Mrs. 
Ashworth.  Once  or  twice  I  have  suggested  that 
they  have  taken  a  good  deal  of  trouble  and  she 
might — I  have  always  stopped  there  and  she  has 
never  asked  me  to  go  on.  What  is  the  good  of  tell- 
ing a  person  they  ought  to  have  feelings  which  na- 
ture seems  to  have  left  out  of  them? 

258 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  259 

Last  night  Roger  came  and  after  a  few  moments 
with  me  suggested  that  we  go  up-stairs  and  talk  over 
the  new  work  with  her.  I  wouldn't,  said  I  was  sleepy 
and  wanted  to  go  to  bed.  When  he  had  gone  I 
lowered  the  lights  and  sat  waiting  to  hear  his  foot- 
steps coming  down.  I  waited  an  hour  and  a  half, 
and  then  they  came,  descending  the  creaking  stair- 
case, passing  my  door,  and  going  on  to  the  street. 
That  wasn't  a  good  night  for  sleeping.  In  the  small 
hours  I  got  up  and  tried  to  read.  The  book  was 
painfully  appropriate,  The  Love  Letters  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Lespinasse,  I  read  them  till  I  heard  the 
milkman  making  his  rounds. 

There  is  something  horribly  humiliating  about 
women's  love-letters.  When  the  passion  is  unre- 
quited, or  half  requited  as  it  was  with  De  Les- 
pinasse, they  are  so  abject.  She  made  a  brave  stand, 
poor  soul,  tried  to  find  Guibert  a  wife  and  pre- 
tend she  didn't  mind.  But  when  she  began  to  sicken 
to  her  death,  all  her  bravery  vanished.  Those  last 
letters  are  like  a  shrill  frenzied  wail.  And  she  was 
a  very  first-class  woman  in  love  with  a  very  second- 
class  man.  I  suppose  it's  a  sort  of  sex  tradition 
that  we  should  adore  and  adhere  in  this  ignominious 
way.     We've  had  it  hammered  into  us  that  to  love 


26o  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

and  cling  was  our  mission  till  it's  grown  to  have  a 
fictitious  value,  and  we  feel  if  we  don't  love  and 
cling  something  is  wrong  with  us.  And  what's  ac- 
complished by  it — who  is  benefited  by  our  useless 
suffering? 

The  other  evening  down-town  in  the  dusk  I  passed 
a  girl  waiting  on  the  corner  by  a  show-window. 
The  light  fell  full  on  her  face  and  I  knew  by  her  ex- 
pression why  she  was  there — a  rendezvous  with  her 
young  man  who  was  late.  She  was  angry,  close- 
lipped  and  sullen-eyed.  I  could  read  her  thoughts — 
she  was  going  to  tell  him  her  opinion  of  him,  be 
haughty  and  frigid,  give  him  a  piece  of  her  mind 
and  leave  him.  Just  then  he  came  slouching  up,  a 
lowering  surly  cub,  and  when  she  saw  him  she 
couldn't  hide  her  joy.  Her  anger  vanished  at  his 
first  word.  She'd  have  believed  anything  he  told 
her  knowing  in  her  heart  it  was  a  lie.  She  hardly 
wanted  his  excuses,  so  glad  he'd  come,  so  pitifully 
slavishly  glad. 

It's  shameful,  crushing,  revolting.  Here  am  I, 
the  heir  of  all  the  ages  In  the  foremost  files  of  time, 
feeling  just  the  same  as  that  subjugated  shop-girl. 
Roger  up-stairs  with  Lizzie,  and  I  can't  sleep,  and 
can't  eat,  and  can't  stop  caring,  and  worst  of  all,  if 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  261 

he  wanted  to  come  back  to  me  Td  open  my  arms 
to  him.  Talk  of  the  forward  march  of  women! 
When  the  cave  man  went  forth  to  find  a  new  wife, 
the  old  discarded  one  left  in  the  corner  by  the  fire 
felt  just  the  same  as  I  do  in  the  opening  of  the  twen- 
tieth century. 

But  now,  as  Pepys  says,  to  bed.  I'll  sleep  if  I 
have  to  take  a  thumping  dose  of  trional  which  I 
was  taught  in  my  youth  was  even  more  wicked  than 
powdering  your  nose. 

This  afternoon  Lizzie  went  forth  to  give  her  first 
lesson  and  I  stayed  in  to  wait  for  her.  I  was  anxious 
about  it.  If  the  survival  of  the  fittest  prevails  among 
educators  as  it  does  in  the  animal  kingdom  I  felt 
sure  that  Lizzie  as  a  teacher  would  not  survive.  Her 
pupil  is  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  sixteen,  with 
a  voice  as  small  as  her  dot  will  be  large.  Betty  had 
conjured  me  to  make  our  protegee  give  up  the  black 
tea-tray  hat  and  I  had  tried  and  failed.  Before  her 
haughty  and  uncomprehending  surprise  I  had 
wilted.  No  one  would  have  had  the  courage  to 
tell  her  why  she  should  look  meek  and  unassuming. 
As  it  was  she  had  dressed  herself  with  unusual  care, 
even  to  the  long  green  earrings  which  I  hadn't  seen 
for  months.     She  was  more  like  the  duchess  in  an 


262  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

English  comedy  cast  for  Broadway,  than  a  penniless 
music  teacher  being  pushed  up  the  ladder. 

As  I  sat  waiting  Miss  Bliss  came  in — wrapped  in 
tlie  Navajo  blanket.  She  threw  it  back  and  stood 
for  me  to  admire,  very  dainty  in  a  new  pink  blouse 
with  a  Pierrot  frill  encircling  her  neck  and  a  broad 
pink  ribbon  tied  round  her  head.  Boyishly  slender, 
her  arms  extended  to  hold  out  the  blanket,  she  had 
the  fragile  grace  of  a  Tanagra  figurine — a  modern 
Tanagra  with  a  powdered  nose  and  a  dash  of  car- 
mine on  the  lips.  When  I  told  her  she  was  pretty  she 
blushed,  dropped  the  blanket  on  the  floor  and  her- 
self on  the  blanket,  and  said  a  girl  owed  it  to  her- 
self always  to  look  her  best. 

"You  might  meet  a  man  in  the  hall,"  she  mur- 
mured, mechanically  reaching  for  the  poker,  "and 
what's  the  sense  of  looking  like  a  slob  ?" 

When  she  poked  the  fire  a  belt  held  down  the 
back  of  the  blouse.  The  kimono  jacket,  the  safety 
pin  and  the  golden  corset  string  were  gone,  if  not 
forever,  at  least  till  their  owner  was  safely  landed 
in  her  own  little  flat  with  her  own  little  husband. 

Our  gossiping  stopped  when  we  heard  Lizzie's 
step  on  the  stairs.     She  entered  without  knocking, 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  263 

sweeping  In  and  slamming  the  door.  A  brusk 
nod  was  all  Miss  Bliss  got  and  my  greeting  was  a 
curt  "Hello,  Evie."  She  threw  herself  into  a  rocker, 
and  extending  her  feet  beyond  the  hem  of  her 
skirt,  sunk  down  in  the  chair  and  looked  at  her 
boots.  In  her  hand  she  held  a  bunch  of  unopened 
letters. 

I  was  keyed  up  for  something  unusual  but  I 
hadn't  seen  her  in  this  state  since  her  illness.  We 
waited  for  her  to  speak,  then  as  she  showed  no  in- 
clination to  do  so  I  remarked,  with  labored  light- 
ness: 

"Well,  Lizzie,  how  was  it?" 

"Beastly,"  she  answered,  without  looking  up. 

"Was  your  pupil  a  nice  girl?" 

"No." 

"Was  she  disagreeable?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  detested  her.  A  little,  sim- 
pering, affected  idiot.    Sing — that  fool!" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  round  the  room 
with  a  wild  and  roving  eye.  Her  glance,  raised 
high,  avoided  us  as  if  the  sight  of  her  fellow  hu- 
mans was  disagreeable.  Miss  Bliss  cleared  her 
throat  and  stirred  cautiously  on  the  blanket.     She 


264  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

knew  where  Lizzie  had  been  and  was  exceedingly 
anxious  to  hear  her  adventures  in  the  halls  of 
wealth,  but  didn't  dare  to  ask. 

"It  really  isn't  of  any  consequence  what  she's 
like,"  I  soothed.  "J^^t  take  her  as  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness." 

"Matter  of  business!'*  She  struck  her  hands  on 
the  arms  of  the  chair  with  a  slapping  sound  and 
jumped  up.  "What  have  I  to  do  with  business?" 
Then  she  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  drum- 
ming with  her  fingers  on  the  pane. 

The  quick  nervous  tattoo  fell  ominously  on  my 
uneasiness.  Miss  Bliss  sent  a  furtive  masonic  look 
at  me,  and  glanced  away.  With  an  elaborate  air  of 
nonchalance  she  patted  her  frill  and  picked  at  her 
skirt,  and  finally,  unable  to  stand  the  combined  pres- 
sure of  our  silence  and  her  own  curiosity,  said 
boldly: 

"What  kind  of  a  house  was  it?" 

Lizzie  answered  slowly,  pronouncing  each  word 
with  meticulous  precision : 

"It  was  a  large,  shiny,  expensive  house.  It  was 
a  hideous  house.  Nobody  who  was  anything,  or 
ever  expected  to  be  anybody,  ought  to  go  into  such 
a  house," 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  265 

"You  don't  say!'*  exclaimed  Miss  Bliss,  artlessly 
amazed.  "I  read  about  it  in  the  papers  and  they 
said  it  cost  millions  and  had  things  in  it  out  of 
kings'  palaces." 

To  this  there  was  no  response,  and  Dolly  Bliss 
and  I  began  to  talk  together.  We  chose  a  safe  topic 
— a  bargain  sale  of  stockings  at  Macy's.  We  tried 
to  invest  it  with  a  careless  sprightliness,  which  was 
difficult,  not  so  much  because  of  the  subject  but  by 
reason  of  the  tattoo  on  the  pane.  It  was  like  an 
accompaniment  out  of  tune.  We  couldn't  seem  to 
give  our  minds  to  the  stockings  while  it  went  on, 
even  when  we  raised  our  voices  and  tried  to  drown 
it  Suddenly  it  stopped  and  we  stopped,  too,  drop- 
ping the  stockings  and  eying  each  other  with  fixed 
stares.  Each  of  us  was  determined  not  to  look  at 
Lizzie  and  it  took  all  our  will  to  refrain. 

She  began  moving  about  behind  us,  and  we  tried 
a  new  subject — the  count's  approaching  departure. 
We  said  nice  things  about  him,  echoed  each  other. 
I  remarked  that  he  was  a  charming  person,  and  Miss 
Bliss  remarked  that  he  was  a  very  charming  person. 
We  had  to  make  a  great  effort.  It  was  almost  im- 
possible to  keep  it  up  with  that  woman  padding 
about  behind  your  chair  like  an  ill-tempered  tiger. 


266  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

When  a  sudden  unexpected  sound  of  tearing  paper 
came  from  her,  I  jumped  as  if  the  tiger  had  made 
a  spring  at  me.  She  was  opening  one  of  her  letters. 
It  loosened  the  tension.  We  suppressed  gasps  and 
took  up  the  count  again,  more  as  if  he  was  a  human 
being  and  less  as  if  he  was  the  center  piece  at  a  dull 
dinner-party.  Lizzie^s  voice,  loud  and  startled, 
stopped  us. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this — Mrs.  Stregazzi's 
married  Berwick!" 

The  count  fled  from  our  minds  like  an  offended 
god.  We  ejaculated,  "Berwick! — Mrs.  Stregazzi!" 
and  sat  stunned. 

Lizzie  consulted  the  letter: 

"Last  week  in  Portland,  Maine.  She  says,  'We're 
as  happy  as  clams  and  everybody  predicts  a  great 
future  for  Dan.'  " 

"Well !"  I  breathed  and  looked  at  the  other  two. 
Lizzie's  temper  was  gone,  a  shared  sensation  made 
her  one  with  us. 

"Did  you  ever!"  she  murmured  as  any  ordinary 
young  woman  might  have  done. 

"Why  she's  fifteen  years  older  than  he  is." 

"More  like  twenty.  She's  not  so  young  as  she 
looks." 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  267 

"Good  gracious,  how  extraordinary!"  I  fell 
back  in  my  chair  aghast  before  this  evidence  of  a 
woman's  daring.  "And  those  two  children,  and 
the  grandmother!"  Mrs.  Stregazzi's  dauntless 
courage  began  to  pale  when  I  compared  it  to  the 
bridegroom's. 

"Maybe  he  wanted  a  home,"  Miss  Bliss  hazarded. 

"A  man  may  want  a  home  but  he  doesn't  want  a 
ready-made  family  in  it." 

It  was  my  place  in  the  trio  to  voice  the  sentiments 
of  that  staid  and  unadventurous  middle  class,  which 
is  described  as  "the  backbone  of  the  country." 

"Singers  don't  want  homes,"  said  Lizzie,  "they're 
in  the  way." 

"It  must  have  been  love,"  I  said  in  an  awed  voice. 
"Nothing  else  could  explain  it." 

For  a  moment  we  were  silent,  each  deflecting  her 
glance  from  the  other  to  an  adjacent  object.  I  don't 
know  why  it  should  have  been,  but  Mrs.  Stregazzi's 
reckless  act  seemed  to  have  depressed  us.  Any  one 
coming  into  the  room  would  have  said  we  had  had 
bad  news. 

Miss  Bliss  broke  the  spell,  emerging  from  depths 
of  thought  in  which  she  had  been  evolving  a  work- 
ing hypothesis. 


268  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"I  don't  see  why  it  is  so  strange/'  she  said  pon- 
deringly. 

"You  don't?" — the  backbone  of  a  country  in 
which  all  men  are  free  and  equal  does  not  bend 
readily — "with  that  disparity  and  he  just  begin- 
ning his  career?" 

"No,  I  don't."  She  was  sitting  cross-legged, 
holding  an  ankle  in  each  hand  and  rocking  gently. 
"I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  think — I  believe  they  were 
lonely.  Lots  of  people  get  married  because  they're 
lonely." 

"She  had  a  mother  and  two  children." 

"She  took  care  of  them,  they  weren't  companions. 
Berwick's  a  companion,  likes  what  she  does  and 
works  at  the  same  thing.  It's  great  to  have  a  per- 
son like  that  around."  She  nodded,  with  shrewd 
eyes  shifting  from  one  face  to  the  other.  "I've 
seen  a  lot  and  I've  noticed.  All  sorts  of  people  get 
married,  and  it  comes  out  right.  It's  not  just  the 
young  ones  and  suitable  ones  that  pull  it  off.  It'll 
be  fine  for  Mrs.  Stregazzi  to  have  him  to  go  round 
with,  and  it'll  be  fine  for  him  to  have  her  to  think 
about  and  talk  things  over  with." 

"They  can  help  each  other  along  in  their  work," 
I  admitted. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  269 

"They  can  be  fond  of  each  other/'  said  Miss 
Bliss. 

She  ceased  rocking  and  looked  out  of  the  window, 
the  shrewd  eyes  growing  dreamy.  Our  appearance 
of  depression  returned,  a  shade  darker  than  before. 
Mrs.  Stregazzi  and  Berwick  might  have  shown  a 
dashing  disregard  for  public  opinion,  but  there  was 
no  reason  for  us  to  look  as  if  we  had  heard  of  their 
mutual  destruction  in  a  railway  accident.  If  we 
had  been  waiting  for  their  mutilated  remains  we 
couldn't  have  appeared  more  melancholy.  Miss 
Bliss  heaved  a  sigh  and  observed : 

*'It's  a  great  thing  to  have  some  one  fond  of  you." 

Lizzie  and  I  didn't  answer,  but  we  gave  ear  as  if 
the  Delphic  oracle  had  spoken  and  we  were  trying 
to  extract  balm  from  its  words. 

"And  it's  a  great  thing  to  be  fond  of  some  one 
yourself." 

Our  silence  gave  assent,  but  the  oracle's  wisdom 
did  not  seem  to  cheer  us.  We  sat  sunk  in  our  chairs, 
eying  her  morosely.  Her  imagination  roused,  she 
ranged  over  the  advantages  of  the  married  state : 

"Just  think  how  lovely  it  would  be  to  know  there 
was  some  one  who  cared  whether  you  were  sick  or 
well,  or  happy  or  blue.     Wouldn't  it  be  great  to 


270  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

have  some  one  come  home  in  the  evening  who  was 
going  to  be  awfully  glad  to  see  you  and  who  you 
were  just  crazy  to  have  come?  And  when  work 
was  slack  and  you  were  losing  your  sleep  about 
money,  wouldn't  it  be  grand  to  know  there  was  a 
feller  who  could  chip  in  and  pay  the  bills?  Oh, 
gee — "  she  dropped  her  eyelids  with  the  ecstatic 
expression  of  one  who  glimpses  ineffable  radiances. 
"Well,  I  guess  yes.'* 

An  answering  "yes"  came  faintly  from  me.  The 
ecstatic  expression  flashed  away,  and  she  turned,  all 
brusk  negation : 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Drake,  you  don't  know  what  it  is. 
You're  well  fixed  with  money  of  your  own.  But 
girls  like  us" — she  pointed  to  Lizzie,  then  brought 
her  finger  back  to  her  own  knee  upon  which  she 
tapped  in  bitter  emphasis — "we've  got  only  our- 
selves. We've  got  to  make  good  or  go  under.  And 
it's  fight,  fight,  fight.  I've  had  to  do  something  I 
hated  since  I  was  sixteen  and  now  she" — with  a 
nod  at  Lizzie,  "has  got  to  do  something  she  hates." 

Lizzie,  sunk  In  the  chair,  eyed  her  like  a  brood- 
ing sphinx.  She  met  the  gaze  with  the  boldness 
of  the  meek  roused  to  passion  : 

"You  do  hate  it.  Miss  Harris.     You've  done  as 


-.##■■ 


'How  lovely  it  would  be  to  know  there  was  some  one  who  cared 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  271 

good  as  say  so.  And  it's  new  now,  you're  only  be- 
ginning. Wait  till  you  come  home  every  evening, 
disgusted  with  it  all  and  everything  and  everybody ; 
when  it's  bad  weather  and  you  feel  sick  and  nobody 
cares.  Wait  till  you  have  to  stand  anything  they 
hand  out  to  you,  and  not  say  a  word  back  or  you'll 
lose  your  job.  I  know.  I've  tried  it  and  it's  tough. 
It's  too  much.  Any  man  that  'ud  come  along  and 
offer  to  take  you  out  of  it  would  look  all  righv:  to 
you."  Her  boldness  began  to  weaken  before  that 
formidable  gaze.  She  became  hurriedly  apologetic. 
"I'm  not  saying  there  is  any  man.  I'm  only  sup- 
posing. And  I  don't  mean  now.  I  mean  after 
you've  been  up  against  it  for  years  and  years  and 
the  grind's  crushed  the  heart  out  of  you." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  the  oracle,  now  openly 
scared  at  her  temerity,  scrambled  to  her  feet.  In 
the  momentary  silence  I  heard  the  distant  bang  of 
the  street  door.  She  heard  it  too  and  forgot  her 
fear,  wheeling  to  the  mirror  for  a  quick  touching 
up  of  her  hair  ribbon  and  frill.  When  she  turned 
back  her  color  had  risen  to  match  her  reddened  lips 
and  her  manner  showed  a  flurried  haste. 

"I  got  to  go — several  things  to  attend  to — my  sup- 
per and  some  sewing  to  finish."   She  didn't  bother  to 


272  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

be  careful  of  excuses.  The  man  who  hoped  to  ac- 
quire the  legal  right  to  pay  her  bills  was  waiting 
below.  She  went,  trailing  the  Navajo  blanket  from 
a  hanging  hand. 

Lizzie  drew  a  deep  breath  and  said : 

"She's  right." 

"About  what?" 

"About  me." 

"You  mean  the  teaching?" 

"I  do.     It's  a  dog's  work." 

She  rose  and  faced  me,  sullen  as  a  thunder-cloud. 

"But  you've  hardly  tried  it." 

"I've  tried  it  enough.  There  are  plenty  of  women 
who  can  scratch  along  that  way  and  be  thankful 
to  Providence  and  pleasant  to  the  pupils.  Let  them 
do   it.      It's  their  work,   not  mine." 

She  turned  from  me  and  went  to  the  window, 
but  not  this  time  to  drum  on  the  pane.  Leaning 
against  the  frame  she  looked  out  on  the  tin  roof. 
The  angry  contempt  of  her  face  suggested  that  the 
millionaires  Betty  was  collecting  were  gathered 
there,  unable  to  escape,  and  forced  to  hear  how  low 
they  stood  in  the  opinion  of  their  hireling. 

"I  am  an  artist.  Those  people,"  she  made  a 
grandiose  gesture  to  the  tin  roof,  "don't  know  what 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  273 

an  artist  is.  They  think  they're  condescending,  do- 
ing a  kindness.  Fm  the  one  that's  condescending — - 
I  do  them  not  a  kindness  but  an  honor,  when  I  enter 
their  houses  and  listen  to  the  squawking  of  their 
barbarous  children." 

"You  can't  expect  them  to  think  that." 

"I  don't,  they  haven't  got  sense  enough.  That 
woman,  the  mother,  came  in  while  I  was  there.  I've 
no  doubt  she  thought  she  was  being  very  agreeable. 
She  asked  me  questions  about  my  method."  She 
gave  me  a  sidelong  cast  of  her  eye  full  of  derision. 
"I  sat  and  listened,  and  when  she  was  done  I  said 
I  didn't  discuss  my  method  with  people  who  knew 
nothing." 

"Oh,  Lizzie,"  I  groaned.    "You  didn't  say  that?" 

"Certainly  I  did.  Only  that.  I  was  polite  and  pa- 
tient. If  I  hadn't  felt  so  disgusted  and  out  of 
spirits  I'd  have  spoken  to  her  freely  and  fully.  But 
it  wasn't  worth  while.'* 

"But  they  won't  stand  that  sort  of  thing.  They 
won't  have  you  again." 

"I  don't  intend  to  go  again.  I  couldn't  endure 
it  for  five  minutes.  I'd  rather  sweep  a  crossing  on 
Lexington  Avenue." 

"There  aren't  any  crossings  on  Lexington  Avenue, 


274  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

and  if  there  were,  you  don't  know  how  to  sweep. 
What  will  you  say  to  Mrs.  Ferguson  and  Mrs.  Ash- 
worth?" 

She  shrugged  with  an  almost  insolent  indiffer- 
ence. 

"Fll  say  I  don't  like  it.    That's  enough,  isn't  it?" 

''Lizzie,  I  beg  of  you  to  be  reasonable.  They 
won't  go  on  helping  you  if  you  disappoint  them  like 
this." 

"Then  they  can  stop  helping  me — Fm  not  so  im- 
mensely charmed  and  interested  in  them.  They  try 
and  force  me  into  things  I  don't  want  to  do.  They 
take  it  out  of  my  hands  and  then  come  smiling  at 
me  and  say  it's  all  arranged.  So  it  is — ^to  their 
liking  but  not  to  mine." 

"It's  your  profession,  the  only  thing  you  know. 
What  else  could  they  do  ?" 

"Let  me  alone." 

It  was  like  beating  yourself  on  a  brick  wall.  I 
felt  frantic. 

"But  what's  going  to  become  of  you?  You've  got 
no  means  of  livelihood." 

She  shrugged  again. 

"I  don't  know.    But  one  thing  I  do  know  and  that 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  275 

is  that  I  won't  do  slave's  work  for  you,  or  Mrs. 
Ferguson,  or  any  one  else  in  the  world." 

I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  I  might  go  on  talk- 
ing all  night  and  not  make  a  dent  on  her.  Demos- 
thenes would  have  turned  away  baffled  before  her 
impossible  unreasonableness. 

It  was  getting  dark  and  I  could  see  her  as  a  tall 
black  silhouette  against  the  blue  dusk  of  the  window. 
There  was  only  one  suggestion  left. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  Dolly  Bliss's  advice  and 
marry?"  My  voice  sounded  unnatural,  like  some- 
body else's. 

"Marry?"  she  echoed  absently.  *'I  suppose  I 
could  do  that." 

"Is  it  that  you  can't  make  up  your  mind,  Lizzie?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured  again,  this  time 
as  if  she  wasn't  thinking  of  what  she  said. 

I  rose  with  shaking  knees.  It  was  the  critical 
moment  of  her  fate  and  mine. 

"Don't  you  want  to?"  I  almost  whispered,  draw- 
ing near  her. 

Her  answer  made  me  stop  short.  It  came  with  a 
tremor  of  fierce  inner  feeling,  revolt,  rage  and  des- 
peration, seething  into  expression : 


2  76  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"Oh  God,  how  I  hate  it  all!" 

"Hate  what — marriage?" 

"No,  everything  that's  around  me.  Those  women, 
this  damnable  work — no  money — no  hope!  I'm 
crazy  with  the  misery  of  it.  It's  like  being  bound 
down  and  smothered.  I  want  to  get  out.  I  want  to 
be  free.  I  want  to  do  what  I  like  and  be  myself. 
You're  trying  to  make  me  into  some  one  else.  You're 
crushing  me  and  killing  me.  I'd  rather  be  dead  in 
my  grave  than  go  on  this  way." 

She  burst  into  frantic  tears,  savage,  racking, 
snatching  the  curtain  about  her  and  sobbing  and 
strangling  behind  it.  The  room  was  nearly  dark  and 
I  could  see  the  long  piece  of  drapery  swaying  as  she 
clutched  it  to  her.  I  tried  to  pluck  it  away,  and 
through  its  folds,  felt  her  body  shaken  and  bent  like 
a  tree  in  a  tempest.  I  had  never  heard  such  weep- 
ing, moans  and  wails,  with  words  coming  in  in- 
articulate bursts.  I  was  frightened,  caught  her 
hand  and  drew  her  out  of  the  curtain  which  hung 
askew  from  torn  fastenings.  She  pushed  me  away 
and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  where,  under  the  vast 
circumference  of  her  hat,  she  lay  prone,  abandoned 
to  the  storm. 

I  stood  helplessly  regarding  her,  then  as  broken 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  277 

sentences  came  from  under  her  hat,  took  out  the  pins 
and  held  it  before  me  like  a  shield,  while  she  gasped 
in  choked  reiteration  that  we  were  killing  her,  that 
she  hated  us  all,  that  she'd  rather  die  than  give  an- 
other lesson.  If  her  paroxysm  hadn't  been  so 
devastating  I  would  have  lost  my  temper  at  the  out- 
rageous injustice  of  such  sentences  as  I  could  catch. 
I  tried  to  say  something  of  this  in  a  tempered  form, 
but  she  shut  me  off  with  an  extended  hand,  beating 
it  at  me,  calling  out  strangled  execrations  at  Betty 
and  Mrs.  Ashworth  and  the  mother  of  her  pupil. 
If  any  one  who  did  not  know  the  situation  had  heard 
her,  they  would  have  thought  those  worthy  and  dis- 
interested women  had  been  plotting  her  ruin. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  wait  till  her 
passion  spent  itself,  which  it  began  to  do  in  sighs 
and  quivering  breaths  that  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot.  When  I  saw  It  was  moderating  I  told  her  I 
would  get  her  some  wine  and  went  to  the  kitchenette, 
leaving  her  with  drenched  face  and  tangled  hair,  a 
piteous  spectacle.  In  a  few  moments  I  was  back 
with  the  wine-glass.  The  room  was  empty — she  had 
gone  leaving  the  black  hat. 

I  picked  it  up  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  We  cer- 
tainly had  got  to  the  climax. 


278  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  didn't  count — with  my  hundred  and  sixty-five 
dollars  a  month.  I  could  retire  into  any  corner,  and 
live  forgotten  and  love  forlorn  like  Mariana.  But 
Lizzie — ?  She  couldn't  sing,  she  wouldn't  teach, 
nobody  could  help  her.  Marriage  was  the  only  way 
out.  As  I  sat  on  the  sofa,  absently  staring  at  the 
hat,  I  had  a  memory  of  a  corral  I  had  seen  at  a 
railway  station  in  a  trip  I  once  took  to  the  West. 
It  was  a  pen  for  the  cattle  that  came  off  the  range 
and  had  to  be  driven  into  the  cars.  The  entrance 
was  wide,  but  the  fenced  enclosure  narrowed  and 
narrowed  until  there  was  only  one  way  of  exit  left, 
up  a  gangway  to  the  car.  The  comparison  wasn't 
elegant  but  it  struck  me  as  fitting — Lizzie  was  on 
the  gangway  with  the  entrance  to  the  car  the  only 
way  to  go. 

"I  wish  to  heaven  she'd  hurry  and  get  into  it," 
I  groaned. 


XVIII 

I  HAVEN'T  seen  her  for  two  days.  Yesterday 
morning  I  went  up-stairs  to  leave  the  hat,  found 
her  door  open  and  her  rooms  empty.  Emma  says 
she  has  been  out  most  of  the  time.  I  waited  in  all 
afternoon,  expecting  to  hear  Betty  on  the  telephone 
in  a  state  of  wrath  about  the  pupil.  Also  I  had  my 
.ear  trained  for  the  postman's  light  ring.  At  any 
moment  I  might  get  a  letter  now  from  Roger,  an- 
nouncing his  engagement.  Why  should  not  Lizzie's 
absences  abroad  be  spent  in  walks  with  him? 

As  usual  the  anticipated  didn't  happen.  Betty  did 
telephone  but  in  amiable  ignorance  of  her  protegee's 
revolt.  She  had  run  to  earth  a  second  pupil,  who 
would  be  ready  the  following  morning  at  eleven. 
Would  I  please  tell  Lizzie  and  did  I  know  how  the 
first  lesson  had  gone?  I  prevaricated — I  can  do 
that  at  the  telephone  when  Betty's  stern  gaze  is  not 
there  to  disconcert  me.  I  was  really  afraid  to  tell 
her,  and  besides,  I,  too,  was  getting  rebellious.  Let 
Lizzie  manage  her  own  affairs  and  fight  her  own 

279 


28o  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

fights.  I  said  cheerfully  she  would  tell  Betty  about 
it,  and  hung  up  the  receiver  wondering  what  would 
happen.  Then  I  wrote  a  note  to  Lizzie  about  the 
new  pupil,  went  up-stairs,  knocked,  and  getting  no 
response,  pushed  it  under  the  door. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  I  sat  waiting  like  a  pris- 
oner in  the  death  cell. 

This  morning,  when  I  leaned  out  of  the  back 
window  and  looked  down  on  the  damp  soil  and 
bare  shrubs  of  the  yard,  I  felt  the  first  soft  air  of 
spring.  The  sunlight  slanted  on  the  brick  walls,  the 
wet  spots  on  the  walk  around  the  sun-dial  shrunk  as 
I  watched  them.  On  the  top  of  a  fence  a  scarred 
and  seasoned  old  cat,  at  which  Mr.  Hamilton  was 
wont  to  throw  beer  bottles,  stretched  lazily,  blink- 
ing at  a  warm  inviting  world.  I  leaned  farther  out 
— ^tiny  blunt  points  of  green  were  pushing  through 
the  mold  along  the  walk.  Mrs.  Phillips,  sure  in 
her  ownership  of  the  yard,  had  planted  crocuses. 
Winter  wasn^t  lingering  in  the  lap  of  spring — he 
had  jumped  off  it  at  a  bound. 

I  turned  from  the  window  and  went  into  the  front 
room,  wondering  vaguely  why  winter  should  always 
be  a  male  and  spring  a  female.  The  tin  roof  was 
dry,  the  hot  bright  sun  had  licked  up  the  sparrow's 


/ 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  281 

bath.  Across  the  street  a  line  of  women  from  the 
tenements  were  advancing  on  the  park,  pushing 
baby  carriages — ^buxom  broad-hipped  mothers  with 
no  hats  and  wonderful  coiffures  of  false  hair.  It 
was  a  glorious  morning,  the  air  like  a  thin  clear 
wine.     I  put  on  my  things  and  went  out. 

The  street  showed  sunny  and  clear,  fair  bright 
avenues  inviting  the  wayfarer  to  wanderings.  Chil- 
dren sped  by  in  groups  and  scattering  throngs. 
Smart  slim  ladies  strolled  with  dogs  straining  at 
leashes.  Friends  met  and  stood  in  talkative  knots, 
motors  flashed  by  attended  by  the  fluttering  of 
loosened  veils.  On  the  fringe  of  benches  along  the 
park  wall  the  Idle  sunned  themselves,  lax  and  lazy. 
Down-town,  where  the  women  shop,  men  would  be 
selling  arbutus  at  the  street  corners.  Soon  naughty 
boys  with  freckled  noses  would  trail  in  hopeful 
groups  along  the  curb,  holding  up  stolen  lilacs  to 
ladies  in  upper  windows — yes,  spring  had  come. 

I  bought  a  bunch  of  daffodils  at  the  florist's  and 
went  into  the  park.  The  first  hint  of  green  was  faint 
on  the  lawns,  and  points  of  emerald  were  breaking 
out  along  the  willow  boughs.  Through  the  crystal 
air  the  sounds  of  children  at  play  came  musically — 
little  yaps  and  squeals  and  sudden  sweet  runs  of 


ZS2  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

laughter.  The  glass  walls  of  the  casino  were 
a- dazzle,  and  revolving  wheels  caught  the  sun  and 
broke  it  on  their  flying  spokes. 

I  was  near  the  lake  when  I  saw  Lizzie.  She  was 
walking  up  a  side  path  that  crossed  mine,  her  head 
down,  her  step  quick  and  decided.  She  didn't  see 
me  and  I  stood  and  waited.  Then  her  eye,  deep  and 
absorbed,  shifted,  caught  me,  and  she  came  to  an 
abrupt  halt.  For  the  first  startled  moment  there 
was  an  indecision  about  her  poised  body  and  an- 
noyed face  that  suggested  flight.  If  I  did  not  share 
her  dismay,  I  did  her  surprise.  This  was  the  hour 
set  for  the  second  lesson.  Of  course  she  might  have 
told  Betty  that  she  would  give  no  more,  also  she 
might  have  been  hastening  to  the  tryst  with  the  new 
pupil.  You  never  could  tell.  In  answer  to  my 
smiling  hail  she  approached,  not  smiling  but  look- 
ing darkly  intent  and  purposeful. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  she  said,  by  way 
of  greeting. 

I  have  been  called  a  tactful  person,  and  acquaint- 
ance with  Lizzie  has  developed  what  was  an  un- 
trained instinct  Into  a  ripened  art: 

"Nowhere  In  particular.  Fm  just  strolling  about 
in  the  sun." 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  283 

Obviously  relieved,  she  said  : 

"I'm  going  over  there — "  pointing  to  the  apart- 
ment-houses across  the  park.  "I  have  business  on 
the  west  side." 

The  new  pupil  lived  on  the  east  side.  So  she 
really  had  given  it  up. 

"YouVe  told  Mrs.  Ferguson  that  you  won't  give 
that  lesson — the   one  she  telephoned   about?" 

A  sudden  blankness  fell  on  her  face. 

"Didn't  you  get  the  letter  I  put  under  your 
door?"  I  cried  in  alarm.  I  couldn't  bear  just  now, 
with  everything  failing  me,  to  have  Betty  angry. 

She  nodded,  looking  down  and  scraping  on  the 
ground  with  her  foot.  Then  slowly  raised  her  eyes, 
and  glimpsing  at  me  under  her  lashes,  broke  into  a 
broad  smile. 

"I  forgot  all  about  it." 

"Oh,  Lizzie!  How  could  you?  If  youVe  made 
up  your  mind  to  end  it  the  least  you  could  do  was 
to  let  her  know.    That's  really  too  bad." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is."  Her  hasty  contrition  was 
far  from  convincing.  "Perfectly  awful.  I  ought  to 
be  punished  in  some  painful  way.  Look  here,  Evie, 
dearest,  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Why  can't  you  just  pop 
into  a  taxi  and  go  down  and  explain  it  to  her?" 


284  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"I'll  tell  you  why;  I  can't,  simply  and  clearly — 
because  I  won't." 

"Goodness,  how  provoking  of  you."  She  didn't 
seem  at  all  provoked.  Her  only  concern  was  to 
get  away  from  me  and  go  to  the  mysterious  busi- 
ness on  the  west  side.  She  bent  sidewise  to  catch 
her  skirt  and  moved  away.  "Then  I  will,  this  even- 
ing, to-morrow  morning — " 

I  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"Lizzie,  listen.  Mrs.  Ferguson  is  my  best  friend. 
I  made  her  do  this  and  I  can't  have  you  treating 
her  so  rudely.   I  thought,  of  course,  you'd  told  her." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  detaining  fingers,  and 
as  she  spoke  in  her  most  coaxing  manner  smoothed 
them  caressingly,  detaching  them  from  their  hold. 

"Dear  girl,  I  know  all  that.  Every  word  you 
say  is  true.  And  I'll  fix  it,  I'll  straighten  it  all  out. 
There  won't  be  the  slightest  trouble." 

"Will  you  telephone  those  people?"  I  implored. 

My  hand  was  dislodged.    She  drew  away. 

"Indeed  I  will,  the  first  moment  I  get."  She 
paused,  arrested  by  a  thought.  "What's  their  name  ? 
I've  forgotten."  Then  backing  off :  "You  telephone 
them.  You  see  I  can't  now  and  I  don't  know  when 
ril  be  n^ar  a  booth.     Say  I'm  sick,  or  have  left 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  285 

town,  or  anything  you  like.  Just  any  excuse  until 
I  can  attend  to  it.  Good-by.  I'll  probably  come  in 
and  see  you  this  afternoon." 

She  turned  and  made  off  as  quickly  as  she  could, 
a  tall  vigorous  figure,  moving  with  a  free  swinging 
step.  I  stood  and  watched  her  hastening  down  the 
path  between  the  trunks  of  the  bare  trees.  There 
was  not  a  trace  upon  her  of  the  tempest  of  two 
nights  before.  It  might  never  have  been.  Her 
whole  bearing  suggested  coursing  blood  and  high 
vitality.  She  was  very  like  the  irresponsible  and 
endearing  creature  I  had  known  when  I  first  went 
to  Mrs.  Bushey's. 

I  gave  up  my  walk  and  went  home  to  send  the 
telephone.  As  I  hurried  along  I  wondered  where 
she  could  be  going  and  why  she  seemed  so  light  in 
spirit.  I  was  in  that  feverish  state  of  foreboding 
when  the  simplest  events  assume  a  sinister  aspect. 
The  thought  crossed  my  mind  that  she  might  be 
going  to  elope  with  Roger.  It  would  be  like  her  to 
elope,  and  though  it  would  be  very  unlike  him 
(about  the  last  thing  in  the  world  one  could  con- 
ceive him  doing) ,  he  might  have  become  clay  in  the 
hands  of  that  self-willed  and  beguiling  potter. 

"Well,"  I   thought,   "so  much  the  better.     It'll 


286  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

be  over/*  And  I  decided  the  best  thing  for  me  to 
do  would  be  to  go  back  to  Europe  and  join  the 
spinsters  and  widows  in  the  pensions. 

I  sent  the  telephone,  trying  to  soothe  an  angry  fe- 
male voice  that  complained  of  a  morning  "utterly 
ruined."  I  sent  another  one  to  Betty,  who  was  also 
discomposed,  having  heard  from  the  mother  of  "the 
barbarous  child.'*  Betty  wouldn't  believe  her,  had 
evidently  championed  the  teacher  with  heat.  Betty 
is  a  stalwart  adherent^  a  partisan,  and  I  foresaw 
battles  in  high  places. 

The  afternoon  drew  to  a  golden  mellow  close  and 
I  lay  on  the  sofa  waiting  for  Lizzie.  I  hadn't  re- 
linquished the  idea  of  the  elopement  but  it  did  not 
seem  so  probable  as  it  had  in  the  morning.  Any- 
way, if  she  hadn't  eloped — if  she  did  come  in  to 
see  me — I  had  made  up  my  mind  I  would  ask  her 
pointblank  what  she  intended  to  do  about  Roger. 
It  was  one  word  for  Lizzie  and  two  for  myself.  I 
really  thought  if  things  went  on  the  way  they  were, 
I  should  go  mad.  Not  that  it  would,  matter  if 
I  went  mad,  for  nobody  depends  on  me,  nor  am  I 
necessary  to  the  progress  or  welfare  of  the  state. 
But  I  don't  want  to  be  an  expense  to  my  friends. 
And  I  don't  know  whether  one  hundred  and  sixty- 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  287 

five  dollars  a  month  is  enough  for  maintenance  in 
an  exclusive  lunatic  asylum  and  I  know  they  would 
never  send  me  to  any  but  the  best. 

When  a  knock  came  I  started  and  called  a  husky 
"Come  in."  The  door  opened — there  had  been  no 
elopement.  Roger  stood  on  the  threshold,  smiling 
and  calm,  which  I  knew  he  wouldn't  have  been  if 
he  was  a  bridegroom.  Marriage  would  always  be 
a  portentous  event  with  a  conscientious  Clements. 

Whatever  I  might  be  with  Lizzie  I  couldn't  be 
pointblank  with  Roger,  though  I  had  known  him 
for  fifteen  years  and  her  for  six  months.  I  ex- 
plained my  trepidation  by  a  headache  and  settled 
back  on  the  sofa.  He  was  properly  grieved  and 
wanted  me  to  follow  Mrs.  Ashworth  to  the  south. 
I  saw  myself  in  a  white  dress  on  a  hotel  piazza  be- 
ing charming  to  men  in  flannels  and  Panama  hats, 
and  the  mere  thought  of  it  made  me  querulous.  He 
persisted  with  an  amiable  urgence.  If  my  opinion 
of  him  hadn't  been  crystallized  into  an  unchangeable 
form,  I  should  have  thought  him  maddeningly 
stupid.  I  began  to  wonder,  if  the  present  state  of 
affairs  lasted  much  longer,  if  I  wouldn't  end  by 
hating  him.  I  was  thinking  this  when  Lizzie  came  in. 

I  had  never  seen  her,  not  even  in  the  gladdest  days 


288  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

before  her  illness,  look  as  she  did.  The  old  Lizzie 
was  back,  but  enriched  and  glorified.  She  entered 
with  a  breathless  inrush,  shutting  the  door  with  a 
blind  blow,  her  glance  leaping  at  me  and  drawing 
me  up  from  the  cushions  like  the  clutch  of  a  power- 
ful hand.  It  seemed  as  if  some  deadening  blight 
had  been  lifted  from  her  and  she  had  burst  into 
life,  enhanced  and  intensified  by  the  long  period  of 
hibernation.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  a  slight,  al- 
most rigid  smile,  her  eyes,  widely  opened,  had  lost 
their  listless  softness  and  shone  with  a  deep  bril- 
liance. 

Roger  gave  a  suppressed  exclamation  and  rose  to 
his  feet.  I  think  she  would  have  astonished  any 
man,  that  Saint  Anthony  would  have  paused  to  look, 
not  tempted  so  much  as  held  in  a  staring  stillness 
of  admiration.  She  was  less  the  alluring  woman 
than  the  burning  exultant  spirit,  cased  in  a  woman's 
body  and  shining  through  it  like  a  light  through  a 
transparent  shell. 

"Lizzie!"  I  exclaimed  on  a  rising  note  of  ques- 
tion. I  had  a  sense  of  momentous  things,  of  a 
climax  suddenly  come  upon  us  all. 

*T've  been  to  Vignorol,"  she  said,  and  came  to 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  289 

a  halt  in  front  of  me,  her  gaze  unwavering,  hef 
breast  rising  to  hurried  breaths. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Harris,"  said  Roger, 
coming  smilingly  forward.  He  had  the  air  of  the 
favored  friend  who  shows  a  playful  pique  at  being 
overlooked. 

The  conventional  words,  uttered  in  an  urbane 
tone,  fell  between  us  like  an  ax  on  a  stretched 
thread.  It  can  be  said  for  him  that  he  knew  Lizzie 
too  little  to  realize  what  her  manner  portended.  He 
evidently  saw  nothing  except  that  she  was  joyously 
exhilarated  and  looked  unusually  handsome. 

She  gave  him  a  glance,  bruskly  quelling  and  con- 
taining no  recognition  of  him.  It  was  her  famous 
piece-of-furniture  glance,  to  which  I  had  been  so 
often  treated.  It  was  the  first  time  Roger  had  ever 
experienced  its  terrors  and  it  staggered  him.  In 
bewilderment  he  looked  at  me  for  an  explanation. 
But  she  was  not  going  to  let  any  outside  influence 
come  between  us.  I  was  important  just  then — a 
thing  of  value  appropriated  to  her  uses. 

"Tve  been  two  days  fighting  it  out,  trying  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  do  it.  And  this  morning, 
when  you  met  me,  I  was  going  there." 


290  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

''Well?"  I  was  aware  of  that  demanding  look 
of  Roger's,  which,  getting  nothing  from  me,  turned 
to  her.     That  was  useless,  but  how  was  he  to  know  ? 

"I  sang  for  him,"  she  said,  the  brilliant  eyes 
holding  mine  as  if  to  grasp  and  focus  upon  herself 
every  sense  I  had. 

"Lizzie!" 

The  premonition  of  momentous  things  grew 
stronger.  Underneath  it,  in  lower  layers  of  con- 
sciousness, submerged  habits  of  politeness  made 
themselves  felt.  I  ought  to  get  Roger  into  the  con- 
versation. 

'T  sang  better  than  I  ever  did  before.  And  Vig- 
norol,  who  used  to  scold  and  be  so  discouraged,  told 
me  Fdgotit!" 

"Lizzie!" 

For  a  moment  we  stared  at  each  other,  speech- 
less, she  giving  the  useful  pair  of  ears  time  to  carry 
to  the  brain,  the  great  news. 

Then  the  subconscious  promptings  grew  too  strong 
to  be  denied  and  I  said : 

"Mr.  Clements  will  be  as  glad  as  we  are  to  know 
that." 

Thus  encouraged,  Roger  emerged  from  his  as- 
tonishment.    He  was  not  as  debonair  as  at  the  be- 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  291 

ginning,  also  he  evidently  wasn't  sure  just  what  it 
was  all  about,  but  he  seized  upon  the  most  prom- 
inent fact,  and  said,  without  enthusiasm,  rather  with 
apprehension : 

"This  doesn't  mean.  Miss  Harris,  that  you're 
thinking  of  returning  to  your  old  profession  ?" 

Her  look  at  him  was  flaming,  as  silencing  as  a 
blow.  I  don't  know  why  she  didn't  tell  him  to  hold 
his  tongue,  except  that  she  was  too  preoccupied  to 
waste  a  word.  He  flinched  before  it,  drew  himself 
up  and  backed  away,  dazed,  as  he  might  have  been 
if  she  really  had  struck  him. 

Having  brushed  him  aside  she  went  on  to  me. 
The  main  fact  imparted,  her  exultation  burst  forth 
in  a  crowding  rush  of  words : 

"It  wasn't  my  voice — ^but  that's  better,  he  says  it's 
the  long  rest — It  was  the  other  thing — the  tem- 
perament, the  soul.  It's  got  into  me.  I  knew  It 
myself  as  soon  as  I  began  to  sing.  I  felt  as  if  some- 
thing that  bound  me  was  gone — ropes  and  chains 
broken  and  thrown  away.  It  was  so  much  easier. 
Before  T  was  always  making  eff'orts,  listening  to 
what  they  told  me,  trying  to  work  It  out  with  my 
Head.  And  to-day !  Oh,  Evie,  I  knew  it,  I  felt  it— 
something  outside  myself  that  poured  into  me  and 


292  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

carried  me  along.  I  could  just  let  myself  go  and 
be  wonderful — wonderful — wonderful !" 

She  threw  out  her  arms  as  if  to  illustrate  the  ex- 
tent of  her  wonderfulness,  wide  as  she  could  stretch, 
then  brought  her  hands  together  on  her  bosom,  and, 
with  half-shut  eyes,  stood  rapt  in  ravished  memory. 

We  gazed  mutely  at  her  as  if  she  were  some  re- 
markable spectacle  upon  which  we  had  unexpectedly 
chanced. 

"I  sang  and  sang,"  she  said  softly,  "and  each 
time  it  was  better.     Vignorol  wouldn't  let  me  go." 

"What  did  he  say?"  I  asked. 

"He  kissed  me,"  she  murmured  dreamily. 

Roger  in  his  corner  moved  and  then  was  still. 

"But  what  did  he  suggest  about  you?  What  did 
he  want  you  to  do  ?" 

My  mouth  was  dry.  Sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
sofa  I  clutched  the  sides  of  it  as  if  it  was  a  frail 
bark  and  I  was  floating  in  it  over  perilous  seas. 

"Go  back  to  where  I  belong,"  she  said,  and  then 
came  out  of  her  ecstasy  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down,  flinging  sentences  at  me. 

"Try  it  again  and  do  it  this  time.  He  says  I  can, 
and  I  know  I  can.  Oh,  Evie,  to  get  away  from  all 
this— those  hateful  pupils,  those  hideous  lessons — 


(t-t^.'lW      vs.<  I  w  ^  f   tr-w.^-.  fcif  ^—i  n'    -^ 


"I  could  just  let  myself  go  and  be  wonderful!' 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  393 

those  women!  To  go  back  to  my  work,  be  among 
my  own  people."  She  brushed  by  Roger,  her  glance, 
imbued  with  its  inward  vision,  passing  over  him  as 
if  he  was  invisible.  "It's  like  coming  out  of  prison. 
It's  like  coming  to  life  again  after  you  were  dead." 

She  had  expressed  it  exactly.  She  had  been  dead. 
The  mild  and  wistful  woman  of  the  last  two  months 
was  a  wraith.  This  was  Lizzie  Harris  born  again, 
renewed  and  revitalized,  now  almost  terrible  in  her 
naked  and  ruthless  egotism. 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  thought  yet  Vignorol 
wants  me  to  study  with  him  for  nothing,  pay  it 
back  when  I  make  good.  But  that  doesn't 
matter  now.  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  that  I'm 
home,  in  my  place,  and  that  I  can  do  it.  They 
were  all  disappointed  in  me,  said  I'd  never  get  there. 
I  can.  I  will.  Wait ! — Watch  me.  You'll  see  me 
on  top  yet,  and  it  won't  be  so  far  off,  either.  I'll 
show  you  all  it's  in  me.  I'll  wake  up  every  clod  in 
those  boxes,  I'll  make  their  dull  fat  faces  shine, 
I'll  hear  them  clap  and  stamp  and  shout,  *Brava, 
Bonaventura!'  " 

She  cried  out  the  two  last  words,  staring  before 
her  with  flashing  eyes  that  looked  from  the  heights 


294  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

of  achievement  upon  an  applauding  multitude.  In 
the  moment  of  silence  I  had  a  queer  clairvoyant 
feeling  that  it  was  true,  that  it  would  happen,  and 
I  saw  her  as  the  queen  of  song  with  her  foot  upon 
the  public's  neck.  Then  the  seeing  passion  left  her 
face  and  her  lip  curled  in  superb  disdain. 

"And  you  wanted  to  make  a  singing  teacher  out 
of  me!" 

She  swept  us  both  with  a  contemptuous  glance, 
as  if  we  were  the  chief  offenders  in  a  conspiracy  for 
her  undoing.  I  was  used  to  it,  but  Roger,  the  galled 
jade  whose  withers  were  yet  unwrung,  winced  under 
her  scorn. 

"But  Miss  Harris,"  he  protested,  "we  only — " 

"Oh,  I'm  not  talking  to  you,"  she  said  brutally. 
"You  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"Certainly,  if  you  say  so,"  he  replied. 
•  There  was  a  moment's  pause.  I  did  not  like  to 
look  at  him.  You  can  bear  being  insulted  if  no  one 
else  sees  it,  but  one  old  friend  mustn't  witness  an- 
other's humiliation,  especially  when  that  other  is 
unable  by  temperament  and  training  to  hit  back. 

Lizzie,  having  crushed  him  like  an  annoying  and 
persistent  fly,  wheeled  toward  the  door. 

"I  must  go.     I  can't  stay  any  longer."      Then  in 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  295 

answer  to  a  question  from  me,  **0h,  I  don't  know 
where — out  to  breathe.  I  can't  stay  still.  I  want 
to  walk  and  feel  I'm  free  again,  that  I'm  not 
cramped  up  in  a  dark  hole  with  no  sunshine.  I  want 
to  feel  that  I'm  myself  and  say  it  over  and  over." 

She  went  out,  seeming  to  draw  after  her  all  the 
stir  and  color  that  she  had  brought  in.  It  was  as 
if  a  comet  with  a  bright  and  glittering  tail  had 
crowded  itself  into  the  room,  and  then,  after  trying 
to  squeeze  into  the  contracted  area,  swishing  and 
lashing  about  and  flattening  us  against  the  walls, 
had  burst  forth  to  continue  on  its  flaming  way. 

I  fell  back  on  the  sofa  feeling  that  every  nerve 
in  me  had  snapped  and  I  was  fllled  with  torn  and 
quivering  ends.  Stupidly,  with  open  mouth,  I 
looked  at  Roger,  and  he,  also  stupidly  but  with  his 
mouth  shut,  looked  at  me.  I  don't  know  how  long 
we  looked.  It  probably  was  a  few  seconds  but  it 
seemed  an  age — one  of  those  artificially  elongated 
moments  when,  as  some  sage  says,  the  measure  of 
time  becomes  spiritual,  not  mechanical.  I  saw  Roger 
afar  as  if  I  was  eying  him  through  the  big  end  of 
an  opera  glass — a  tiny  familiar  figure  at  the  end 
of  a  great  vista.  The  space  between  us  was  filled 
with  a  whirling  vortex  of  thoughts,  formless  and 


296  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

immensely  exciting.  They  surged  and  churned 
about  trying  to  find  a  definite  expression,  trying  to 
force  their  way  to  my  brain  and  tell  me  thrilling 
and  important  news.  Then  the  familiar  figure  ad- 
vanced, pressed  them  out  of  the  way,  and  taking  a 
chair  by  the  sofa  sat  down  and  demanded  explana- 
tions. 

I  couldn't  give  them.  I  couldn't  explain  Lizzie 
to  him  any  more  than  I  could  to  Betty  or  Mrs.  Ash- 
worth.  I  remembered  him,  before  he  had  met  her, 
telling  me  in  the  restaurant  that  I  was  seeing  her 
through  my  own  personality,  and  now  he  was  doing 
it,  and  he'd  never  get  anywhere  that  way.  I  wanted 
desperately  to  make  him  understand.  There  was 
something  so  pitiful  in  his  dismay,  his  reiterated 
"But  why  should  she  be  offended  with  me.  What 
have  /  done?"  And  then  hanging  on  my  words 
as  if  I  was  some  kind  of  a  magician  who  could  wave 
a  wand  and  make  it  all  clear.  Nothing  would  have 
pleased  me  more  than  to  be  able  to  advance  some 
"first  cause"  from  which  he  could  have  worked  up 
to  a  logical  conclusion.  But  how  could  I?  The 
lost  traveler  in  the  Australian  bush  was  faced  by  a 
task,  simple  and  easy,  compared  to  Roger  Clements' 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  297 

trying"  to  grasp  the  intricacies  of  Lizzie  Harris' 
temperament. 

I  was  sorry  for  him.  I  was  sorry  (the  way  you're 
sorry  for  some  one  inadequately  equipped  to  meet 
an  unexpected  crisis)  to  see  how  helpless  he  was. 
I  tried  to  be  kind  and  also  truthful — a  difficult  com- 
bination under  the  circumstances — and  make  plain 
to  him  some  of  the  less  complex  aspects  of  the 
sphinx,  only  to  leave  him  in  dazed  distress. 

He  was  alarmed  at  her  evident  intention  to  go 
back  to  the  stage,  couldn't  believe  it,  wanted  me  to 
tell  him  why  an  abandoned  resolution  should  come 
back  like  a  curse  to  roost.  He  couldn't  get  away 
from  his  original  conception  of  her,  had  learned 
her  one  way  and  couldn't  releam  her  another.  It 
was  at  once  a  pathetic  sight  and  an  illuminating  ex- 
perience— ^the  man  of  ability,  the  student,  the 
scholar,  out  of  his  depths  and  floundering  foolishly. 
The  mind  trained  to  the  recognition  of  the  obvious 
and  established,  accustomed  to  fit  its  own  standards 
to  any  and  all  forms  of  the  human  animal,  coming 
up  with  a  dizzying  impact  against  the  mind  that 
had  no  guide,  no  standard,  no  code,  but  floats  in  the 
flux  of  its  own  emotions. 


298  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

I  repeat  I  was  sorry,  immensely  sorry.  Such  is 
the  inconsistency  of  human  nature  that  I  was  filled 
up  and  overflowing  with  sympathy  at  the  spectacle 
of  my  own  man,  once  my  exclusive  property,  hurt, 
flouted  and  outraged  by  the  vagaries  of  my  suc- 
cessful rival. 

A  eight  o'clock  that  evening  I  was  in  my  sitting- 
room  when  I  heard  her  come  in.  She  did  not  stop 
at  my  door  but  went  up-stairs,  a  quick  rustling 
progress  through  the  silence  of  the  house.  It  was 
very  still,  not  a  sound  from  any  of  the  rooms, 
when  I  heard  the  notes  of  her  piano,  and  then  her 
voice — "Mon  cceur  s'ouvre  a  ta  voix'*  The  register 
was  shut,  and  I  stole  to  the  door  and  opening  it 
stood  at  the  stair-head  listening.  Before  the  aria 
was  over  I  knew  that  what  she  had  said  was  true. 
Lizzie  had  found  herself. 

After  a  pause  she  began  again — 0  Patria  Mia 
from  A'ida,  I  tiptoed  forward  and  let  myself  noise- 
lessly down  on  the  top  step,  breath  held  to  listen. 
As  the  song  swelled,  the  cry  of  a  bleeding  and  dis- 
tracted heart,  the  doors  along  the  passages  were 
softly  opened.  Up  and  down  the  wall  came  the 
click  of  turned  latches  and  stealthy  footsteps.  Mrs. 
Bushey*s  lodgers  were  not  abroad,  as  I  had  thought. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  299 

The  stairs  creaked  gently  as  they  dropped  upon 
them.  When  Patria  Mia  was  over  we  were  all 
there.  I  could  see  the  legs  of  Mr.  Hamilton  and 
the  count  dangling  over  the  banisters  above  me.  On 
the  bottom  of  the  flight  Mr.  Weatherby  sat,  and 
Miss  Bliss  and  Mr.  Hazard  leaned  against  the  wall, 
looking  up  with  the  gaslight  gilding  their  faces. 

In  the  silence  that  fell  on  the  last  note  no  one 
spoke.  There  was  no  rising  chorus  of  praise  as 
there  once  had  been.  I  don't  think  we  were  aware 
of  one  another,  each  rapt  in  the  memory  of  an 
ecstatic  sadness.  The  cautious  foot  of  Mrs.  Phillips 
stealing  along  the  lower  hall  made  me  look  down 
and  I  saw  her  stationing  herself  beside  young 
Hazard,  and  that  Dolly  Bliss*  face  shone  with  tears. 

She  went  on — Vissi  d'Arte,  Vissi  d' A  more,  Mu- 
setta's  song;  the  habanera  from  Carmen,  Brahm's 
Sapphischc  Ode,  sounding  the  depths  and  heights. 
Between  each  piece  we  were  dumb,  only  the  creak- 
ing of  the  banisters  as  Mr.  Hamilton  shifted,  or 
the  sniffing  of  Miss  Bliss  when  the  song  was  sad, 
fell  on  our  silence.  We  never  saw  her.  She  was 
at  last  the  diva,  remote,  august,  a  woman  mysterious 
and  unknown,  singing  to  us  across  an  impassable 
gulf. 


300  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget  it — the  nar- 
row half-lit  passages,  the  long  oval  of  the  stair-well, 
on  the  bottom  step  of  my  flight  Mr.  Weatherby's 
back,  broad  and  bent,  as  he  rested  his  elbows  on  h'-s 
knees.  Against  the  whitewashed  wall  below  Mr. 
Hazard  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  a  trance  of  listening; 
Mrs.  Phillips,  her  head  pressed  back  against  the 
wall,  her  lids  closed,  and  Dolly  Bliss'  little  face 
bright  with  slow  dropping  tears. 

We  were  Liza  Bonaventura's  first  audience. 


XIX 

THE  next  morning,  while  I  yet  slept,  she  came 
knocking  and  rattling  at  my  door.  When  I 
let  her  in  she  upbraided  me  for  having  it  locked,  un- 
mindful of  my  sleepy  excuses  that  as  the  street  door 
was  generally  open  all  night  it  was  wisdom  to  keep 
one's  apartment  firmly  closed. 

She  was  in  the  blue  kimono  over  her  nightgown, 
and  when  I  got  back  into  bed — for  it  was  too  early 
for  breakfast — sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  couch 
and  told  me  that  she  had  decided  to  accept  Mrs. 
Ferguson's  offer  to  send  her  to  Europe. 

I  had  expected  some  move  but  hadn't  dared  to 
hope  for  this.  It  was  impossible  to  hide  my  agita- 
tion, to  wipe  the  expression  of  startled  excitement 
off  my  face.  She  paid  no  attention  to  me,  would 
not  have  noticed  if  I  had  fallen  flat  in  a  dead  faint, 
so  engrossed  was  she  in  her  plans.  Staring  out  of 
the  window  with  narrowed  far-seeing  eyes,  she  de- 
veloped her  program,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  I 
was  not  answering,   more  like  a  person  thinking 

301 


302  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

aloud  than  one  consulting  another.  When  she  finally 
paused,  I  said  hoarsely,  afraid  to  believe  it : 

"Mrs.  Ferguson  may  have  changed  her  mind. 
You  wouldn't  hear  of  the  offer  when  she  made  it." 

She  treated  the  suggestion  as  preposterous. 

"What  an  idea !  Who  ever  heard  of  any  woman 
changing  her  mind  on  such  a  subject." 

"You've  changed  yours,"   I   answered  faintly. 

"I'm  different,  and  besides  I've  changed  it  for  the 
better.  She'll  be  only  too  glad  to  send  me.  Why 
think  of  what  it  means  to  her !  She'll  be  known  as 
the  patron  of  one  of  the  greatest  living  prima 
donnas.  That's  a  thing  that  doesn't  happen  to  every- 
body. Is  the  morning  paper  down-stairs?  I  want 
to  see  what  steamers  are  leaving  this  week.  I'll 
go  as  soon  as  I  can  get  off.  Oh,  I  won't  meet  any- 
body, and  it  doesn't  matter  if  I  do." 

The  door  closed  on  her  and  I  fell  back  on  the  pil- 
lows like  a  marionette  whose  wire  has  broken. 
Limp  as  a  rag  I  lay  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  and 
out  of  my  mouth  issued  a  sigh  that  was  almost  a 
groan.  It  was  all  I  had  power  for.  The  tension 
snapped,  I  suddenly  felt  myself  invaded  by  a  lassi- 
tude so  deep,  so  vast  that  it  went  to  the  edges  of 
the  world  and  lapped  over.     I  would  like  to  have 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  303 

been  removed  to  a  far  distance  and  lain  under  a 
tree  and  watched  the  leaves  without  moving  or 
thinking  or  speaking.  I  would  like  to  have  stayed 
in  bed  and  looked  at  the  dusty  circle  of  cement 
flowers  from  which  the  chandelier  hung,  for  years 
and  years. 

She  came  hastening  back  with  the  paper,  tore  it 
apart,  and  spreading  it  on  the  table  read  the  ship- 
ping advertisements.  Several  steamers  were  due 
to  sail  within  the  week.  She  decided  on  the  best  and 
throwing  the  paper  on  the  floor,  said  briskly : 

"I'll  see  her  about  it  this  morning  before  she  goes 
out  There's  no  need  to  bother  about  it  before  break- 
fast I'll  just  take  a  cup  of  coff'ee  down  here  with 
you  and  then  go  up  and  dress.    Let's  get  it  now." 

I  rose,  telling  her  to  set  the  table  while  I  dressed. 
She  put  on  two  cups,  each  trip  to  the  table  impeded 
by  the  paper,  over  which  she  trampled  with  loud 
cracklings,  then  she  gave  it  up  and  followed  me, 
talking.  My  toilet,  performed  with  mutilated  rites 
owing  to  its  publicity,  took  me  from  room  to  room, 
with  Lizzie  at  my  heels.  When  I  shut  the  door  on 
my  bath,  she  leaned  against  it  and  through  the  crack 
gave  me  her  opinion  on  the  rival  merits  of  Paris 
and  Berlin  as  centers  of  musical  study. 


304  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

While  I  was  making  the  breakfast  she  stood  in  the 
entrance  of  the  kitchenette,  then,  squeezing  by  her 
with  the  coffee  pot  in  one  hand  and  a  plate  of  toast 
in  the  other,  she  did  not  give  me  enough  room  and 
the  toast  slid  off  the  plate  and  was  strewed  afar.  She 
picked  up  a  piece  and  sat  down  eating  it,  her  elbows 
on  the  table,  while  I  gathered  up  the  rest.  Hot  and 
disheveled  I  took  my  place  opposite  while  she 
watched  me,  biting  delicately  at  her  toast,  benignly 
beautiful  and  fresh  as  a  summer's  morn. 

She  was  stretching  her  hand  for  her  cup  when  a 
disturbing  thought  made  her  pause.  She  dropped 
the  hand  and  looked  at  me  in  consternation; — her 
big  trunk  was  no  good,  it  had  been  broken  three 
years  ago  coming  from  California. 

"Oh,  well" — a  happy  solution  occurred  to  her 
and  she  held  out  her  hand  for  the  cup — "I  can  bor- 
row one  of  yours.  That  large  one  with  the  Bagdad 
portiere  over  it.  I'll  return  it  as  soon  as  I  get  there. 
You  don't  mind  loaning  it  to  me,  do  you,  dearest?" 

I  gave  it,  warmly,  generously,  effusively.  It 
wasn't  like  giving  Mrs.  Bushey  the  lamp.  There 
was  no  necessity  for  diplomatic  pressure.  I  would 
have  given  her  my  jewels,  my  miniatures,  my  last 
cent  in  the  bank,  my  teeth  like  Fantine,  each  and 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  305 

all  of  my  treasures,  to  have  her  go.  Nobody  knows 
how  I  wanted  her  to  go.  It  was  not  that  I  had 
ceased  to  love  her — I  will  do  that  till  I  die.  It 
was  not  that  I  had  hopes  Roger  would  forget  her — 
he  may  be  as  faithful  as  Penelope  for  all  I  know. 
I  was  unable  to  stand  any  more.  I  was  down,  done, 
ended.  I  wanted  to  creep  into  my  little  hole,  curl 
up  and  lie  still.  I  wanted  to  look  at  the  wreath  of 
cement  flowers  for  years.  I  wanted  immunity  from 
the  solving  of  unsolvable  questions,  respite  from 
trying  to  straighten  out  what  persisted  in  staying 
tangled,  freedom  to  regain  my  poise,  reinstate  my 
conscience,  patch  up  the  broken  pieces  of  my  heart 
An  immovable  body  had  encountered  an  Irresistible 
force,  and  though  the  immovable  body  was  still  in 
its  old  place,  it  had  been  so  scarred  and  torn  and 
tattered  by  the  irresistible  force  that  only  rest  would 
restore  It. 

That  was  two  days  ago.  In  the  interim  there  has 
been  no  rest — I  have  spent  most  of  the  forty-eight 
hours  in  taxicabs  and  at  telephones — ^but  relief  is 
in  sight 

Lizzie  Is  going. 

It  is  all  arranged.  Betty  has  dispersed  the  pupils 
and  renewed  her  European  offer.    Between  taxicabs 


3o6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

she  caught  me  here  yesterday  and  told  me  that  few 
women  have  the  privilege  of  being  the  patron  of 
one  of  the  greatest  living  prima  donnas.  The  privi- 
lege sat  soberly  upon  her  and  she  was  going  to 
make  herself  worthy  of  it  by  giving  one  of  the 
greatest  living  prima  donnas  every  advantage  that 
Europe  offers. 

In  the  afternoon  Lizzie  and  I  went  down  to  the 
steamship  office  and  bought  her  ticket,  and  then 
to  the  banker's  to  draw  the  first  instalment  on  her 
letter  of  credit.  It  was  a  royally  generous  letter 
and  I  said  so.  Lizzie  didn't  think  it  was  too  much 
and  went  over  a  list  of  expenses  to  prove  it.  She 
Is  to  go  to  Berlin — Vignorol  wanted  Paris  but  as 
a  dramatic  singer  she  preferred  Berlin.  I  gathered 
from  a  casual  remark  that  Vignorol  was  hurt  at  her 
desertion  of  him  and  his  country.  But  this  didn't 
trouble  her. 

"Vignorol !  I  don't  see  that  it  was  so  kind  of  him 
to  want  to  take  me  for  nothing.  It  would  have 
made  him.  He's  only  known  here  In  New  York 
now  and  as  my  teacher  he  would  have  been  known 
all  over  the  world." 

The  steamer  sails  the  day  after  to-morrow  and 
this  afternoon  I  sent  up  the  trunk.     I  had  offered 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  307 

to  come  In  the  evening  and  help  her  pack  and  then 
backed  out.  In  an  offhand  manner,  as  she  was 
sorting  piles  of  sheet  music,  she  said  Roger  was 
coming  in  after  dinner  to  say  good-by.  She  seemed 
engrossed  by  the  music,  gave  an  absent-minded  as- 
sent when  I  said  I  couldn't  help  that  night.  I  could 
not  tell  whether  she  had  at  last  guessed  and  was 
exhibiting  unusual  tact  or  whether  she  was  still  un- 
conscious. I  knew  that  every  minute  of  the  next 
day  was  filled  and  it  would  be  Roger's  only  chance 
to  see  her  alone.  It  was  difficult  to  imagine  him 
proposing  in  a  room  littered  with  his  lady's  ward- 
robe. But  love  is  said  to  find  out  a  way  and  if  a 
man's  In  earnest  he  can  put  the  question  just  as 
well  In  a  fourth-floor  parlor  full  of  clothes,  as  he 
can  by  moonlight  in  a  bower. 

I  had  been  waiting  for  this  interview,  braced  and 
steeled  for  the  announcement.  It  was  the  final  trial 
and  I  was  going  to  go  through  with  it  proudly  and 
stoically  If  I  died  the  day  after.  I  did  not  feel 
quite  as  if  I  should  die.  Hope  springs  eternal  in 
the  human  breast,  that^s  why  we  don't  all,  sometime 
or  other,  commit  suicide.  Hope  upheld  me  now: 
with  a  career  beckoning  she  might  refuse  him.  It 
was  but  a  sickly  gleam.    No  woman,  comprehensible 


3o8  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

to  me,  would  ever  put  the  greatest  career  the  world 
offers  before  Roger  Clements.  The  hope  lay  in  the 
fact  that  Lizzie  was  not  a  comprehensible  woman. 

With  great  inward  struggle  I  preserved  my  pride 
and  stoicism  through  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  They 
were  still  with  me  when,  in  the  evening  I  lay  down 
on  the  divan  bed,  whence  I  can  hear  all  ascending 
footsteps.  The  wreath  of  cement  flowers  gradually 
faded,  and  the  daylight  sounds  of  the  house  were 
absorbed  in  the  evening  quiet.  Night  had  possession 
of  the  city  for  what  seemed  an  endless  time  when  I 
heard  him  going  up :  from  the  street,  past  my  floor, 
up  the  next  flight,  and  the  next,  then  the  far  faint 
closing  of  Lizzie's  door.  Rigid  in  the  dark  I  pic- 
tured the  meeting — the  room  with  its  high  blaze 
of  gas,  the  open  trunks  and  scattered  garments,  and 
Lizzie  with  her  smile  and  the  enveloping  beam  of 
her  glance. 

It  was  profoundly  still  in  the  back  room,  only  the 
tiny  ticking  of  my  watch  on  the  table.  The  old 
tomcat,  who  at  this  hour  was  wont  to  lift  up  his 
voice  in  a  nuptial  hymn,  had  gone  afield  for  his 
wooing.  The  parlors  and  bedrooms  in  the  exten- 
sions were  quiet,  their  lighted  windows  throwing  a 
soft  yellow  light  into  my  darkened  lair.    Our  little 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  309 

bit  of  the  city  held  its  breath  in  sympathy  with  me, 
prone  with  fixed  eyes,  seeing  those  two  in  the  parlor. 

Would  he  work  up  to  it  in  gentle  gradations, 
gracefully  and  poetically  as  men  did  in  novels,  or 
blurt  it  out  in  one  great  question  which  (for  me 
at  least)  would  have  made  life  blossom  as  the  wood 
did  when  Siegmund  sung?  They  would  probably 
stand — people  didn't  sit  when  such  matters  were 
afoot — and  if  she  said  yes  would  he  take  her  in  his 
arms  then  and  there?  Under  the  same  roof,  just 
two  floors  above  me,  they  might  be  standing  now, 
enfolded,  cheek  to  cheek.  Pride  and  stoicism  fell 
from  me  and  I  pressed  my  face  into  the  pillow  and 
moaned  like  a  wounded  animal. 

The  watch  ticked  on.  It  was  evidently  not  going 
to  be  short  and  tempestuous.  Roger  was  an  unhur- 
ried person  and  he  would  probably  proffer  his  suit 
with  dignified  deliberation.  I  was  certain,  if  he  was 
successful,  he'd  come  in  and  tell  me  on  the  way 
down.  I  couldn't  see  him  passing  my  door  and  not 
remembering.  The  place  was  dark,  he  might  think 
I  was  asleep  and  go  by.  T  got  up  and  lit  the  lights, 
thinking  as  I  stretched  up  with  the  match,  that  they 
were  signals  telling  him  I  was  here,  waiting,  ready 
to  wish  him  joy. 


3IO  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Then  I  looked  at  the  watch — only  just  nine.  He 
might  be  hours  longer.  I  could  spend  the  time 
in  preparation,  be  ready  to  meet  him  with  a  frank 
unforced  smile. 

I  went  to  the  back  window  and  looked  up  at  the 
stars  for  courage.  The  sky  was  sprinkled  with 
them — ^big  ones  and  bright  pin  points.  For  cen- 
turies they  had  been  gazing  down  at  the  puny 
agonies  of  discarded  lovers,  unmoved  and  cynically 
curious,  winking  at  them  in  derision.  The  thought 
had  a  tonic  effect.  Under  its  stimulus  I  straightened 
my  ancestors,  askew  after  a  morning's  dusting,  and 
touched  up  the  bunch  of  daffodils  on  the  table.  Then 
the  effect  began  to  wear  off.  I  reached  for  the 
watch — twenty  minutes  past  nine. 

li  she  had  refused  him  it  would  have  been  done 
by  now.  Lizzie  wasn't  one  to  spare  or  mince  her 
words.  I'd  better  get  ready  for  him.  I  went  to 
the  mirror  and  saw  a  ghost,  and  the  stars'  stern 
message  was  forgotten.  That  I  should  some  day  be 
dust  was  not  a  sustaining  thought  now  when  I  was 
so  much  a  suffering  sentient  thing,  sunk  down  In 
the  midmost  of  the  moment.  I  brushed  some  rouge 
on  my  cheeks  and  smiled  at  the  reflection  to  see 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  311 

if  I  could  do  it  naturally.  It  was  ghastly,  like  the 
grimace  of  a  corpse  that  had  expired  in  torment. 

Then  suddenly  I  dropped  my  rouge  and  gave  a 
smothered  cry — I  heard  Lizzie  calling  my  name. 
For  a  moment  power  of  movement  seemed  stricken 
from  me.  I  had  not  thought  that  she  would  be  the 
one  to  tell  me.  She  called  again  and  I  opened 
the  door  and  went  into  the  hall.  Her  head  was 
visible  over  the  banisters. 

"Have  you  got  the  key  of  that  trunk?"  she  said. 
"It's  packed  and  I  want  to  lock  it." 

It  was  a  ruse  to  get  me  up  there.  Even  Lizzie 
wouldn't  announce  an  engagement  at  the  top  of  her 
voice  down  two  flights  of  stairs.  I  found  the  key 
and  mounted,  holding  to  the  hand-rail.  It  seemed 
a  long  climb.  When  I  got  to  the  top  I  had  no 
breath,  though  I  had  gone  slowly,  and  I  trembled 
so  that  I  was  afraid  she  would  notice  it,  and  laid  the 
key  on  the  table. 

The  trunk  was  packed,  its  lid  down,  and  another, 
open,  with  garments  trailing  over  its  sides,  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor.  Round  it  lay  the  unpacked 
remains  of  Lizzie's  wardrobe,  in  mounds,  in  broken 
scatterings,    in    confused     interminglings.      If     a 


312  THE    BOOK   OE   EVELYN 

cyclone  had  descended  on  neat  closets  and  bureau 
drawers,  scooped  out  their  contents,  carried  it  with 
a  whirling  centripetal  motion  into  the  center  of  the 
room,  took  a  final  churning  rush  through  it  and 
dashed  out  again,  the  place  could  not  have  presented 
a  more  wildly  disheveled  appearance. 

In  an  unencumbered  corner,  an  eddy  untouched 
by  the  cyclone's  wrath,  Roger  stood  putting  on  his 
coat.  We  looked  across  the  chaos,  bowed  and 
smiled.  I  knew  my  smile  by  heart.  Roger's  was 
something  new,  rose  no  higher  than  his  lips,  leaving 
his  eyes  somber,  I  might  say  sullen.  Lizzie,  without 
words,  had  snatched  up  the  key  and  knelt  by  the 
trunk.  She  looked  untidy,  hot  and  rather  cross. 
They  certainly  had  not  the  appearance  of  lovers. 

I  fell  weakly  into  a  chair  and  awaited  revelations. 
None  came.  Roger  buttoned  his  coat,  Lizzie  made 
scratching  noises  with  the  key.  There  was  some- 
thing strained  and  sultry  In  the  silence.  Could  she 
have  refused  him  ?  One  of  the  disappointing  things 
about  people  in  real  life  is  their  failure  to  rise  to  the 
dramatic  expression  fitting  to  great  moments.  Had 
I  been  in  a  play  I  would  have  used  words  vibrating 
with  the  thud  of  my  own  heart-beats.  What  I  did 
say  was : 


THE    BOOK   OF   EVELYN  313 

"Have  you  had  a  nice  evening?" 

"Very,"  said  Roger  with  a  dry  note. 

"Have  we,"  murmured  Lizzie,  busy  with  the  key. 
"Fm  sure  I  don't  know.  Tve  not  had  time  to  say 
a  word  to  Mr.  Clements." 

"I'm  afraid  I've  been  rather  in  the  way,"  he  re- 
marked, the  dry  note  a  trifle  more  astringent. 

"Well,  the  truth  is  you  have,"  she  answered.  "Are 
you  sure  this  is  the  right  key,  Evie?" 

The  gleam  of  hope  brightened  into  a  ray.  I  sat 
forward  on  the  edge  of  the  chair  looking  from 
Lizzie's  bent  back  to  Roger's  face,  which  had  red- 
dened slightly  and  had  a  tight  look  about  the  mouth. 
I  am,  by  nature,  a  shy  and  modest  person,  and  un- 
der normal  conditions  the  last  thing  I  would  do 
would  be  to  force  another's  confidence.  But  I  had 
to  know.  I  had  to  drag  the  truth  out  of  them  if  it 
came  with  a  shriek  like  the  roots  of  the  fabled 
mandrake. 

"Haven't  you  talked  at  all?*'  I  exclaimed,  with  an 
agonized  emphasis  that  might  have  betrayed  me  to 
a  child  of  twelve. 

They  did  not  appear  to  notice  it.  Roger  moved 
from  his  corner,  picking  his  way  round  a  clump  of 
boots  that  had  been  whirled  near  the  sofa. 


314  THE    BOOK   OE   EVELYN 

"Talk?"  said  Lizzie,  still  engaged  with  the  key. 
"How  can  people  talk  when  they're  packing  to  go 
to  Europe?  There!  It's  in  and  it  turns.  Thank 
goodness  the  lock's  all  right." 

She  rose  and  surveyed  the  room  with  an  intent 
frowning  glance. 

"That,"  pointing  to  the  other  trunk,  "I'll  begin 
on  now  and  finish  to-morrow.  This,"  turning  to 
the  full  one,  "is  done.  I'd  better  lock  it  at  once  and 
get  it  out  of  the  way." 

She  turned  back  to  it  and  gave  a  series  of  tenta- 
tive pushes  at  the  lid  which  rose  rebelliously  over 
bulging  contents. 

Nothing  had  happened !  She  hadn't  let  him  speak 
— he  hadn't  dared — no  opportunity  had  offered? 
What  did  it  matter  how  or  why?  The  sickening 
thudding  of  my  heart  began  to  grow  less.  I  leaned 
my  elbow  on  my  knees  and  my  forehead  on  my 
hands,  feeling  at  last  as  if  I  was  going  to  be  Early 
Victorian  and  swoon. 

Under  the  shadow  of  my  fingers  I  could  see 
Roger's  feet  stepping  carefully  among  the  boots. 
Skirting  tangled  heaps  of  millinery,  tliey  arrived 
at  the  trunk.  I  dropped  my  hands  and  watched 
while  he  addressed  himself  to  Lizzie's  back. 


THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN  315 

"Goodnight/*  He  stretched  out  his  hand.  "Good- 
by." 

She  turned,  saw  the  hand  and  put  hers  into  it; 
then,  for  the  first  time  smiled,  but  not  with  her 
habitual  rich  glow. 

"Good-by.  Td  ask  you  to  stay  but  there's  really 
too  much  to  do.  I've  got  to  have  to-morrow  free 
to  finish  up  in." 

The  hands  separated  and  dropped.  His  back  was 
toward  me  and  I  was  glad  of  it. 

"Perhaps  we'll  meet  again  some  day." 

"Oh,  surely."  The  abstraction  of  her  look  van- 
ished, her  smile  flashed  out  brilliant  and  dazzling. 
"iBut  not  here,  not  this  way.  You'll  see  me  soon 
in  my  right  place — ^behind  the  footlights." 

He  murmured  a  response  and  moved  toward  the 
door.  She  turned  back  to  the  trunk,  pressing  on  It 
and  then  drawing  back  and  pressing  again.  He 
passed  me  with  a  low  "Good  night,  Evie,"  and  I 
answered  in  the  same  tone. 

He  was  at  the  door  when  she  ceased  her  efforts, 
and  drawing  herself  up  with  a  deep  breath,  called 
peremptorily : 

"Come  here,  Mr.  Clements." 

He  stopped,  the  door-knob  in  his  hand. 


3i6  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

"What  is  it,  Miss  Harris?" 

She  stood  back  from  the  trunk,  flushed  and  irri- 
tated. 

"Just  sit  on  this  trunk,  please.  It  must  be  locked 
to-night." 

Her  eye  on  him  was  as  the  eye  of  a  general  or  a 
subaltern,  impersonal,  commanding,  imperious. 

He  met  it  and  stood  immovable.  In  the  fifteen 
years  I  have  known  him  I  had  never  seen  him  look 
so  angry. 

"Hurry  up,"  she  said  sharply.  "Fd  ask  Evie  but 
she's  not  heavy  enough." 

He  answered  with  icy  politeness : 

"Miss  Harris,  I  am  very  sorry,  but  IVe  already 
stayed  too  long.  There  are  other  men  in  the  house, 
who  will  surely  only  be  too  happy  to  sit  on  your 
trunk  whenever  you  choose  to  command  them,"  and 
he  opened  the  door. 

"Oh,  very  well,  If  you're  going  to  be  so  dis- 
obliging," she  answered,  angry  now  in  her  turn. 
Then  to  me :  "Come  over  here,  Evie,  and  help.  If 
we  both  press  as  hard  as  we  can  I  think  we  can  do 
it.  I  don't  care  to  wait  till  the  morning.  I  want 
this  locked  now." 

I   rose  obediently  and  began  to  steer  my  way 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  317 

through  the  cyclone's  track.  Roger  came  in,  shutting 
the  door  with  a  bang. 

"Mrs.  Drake's  in  no  condition  to  make  such  exer- 
tions. She's  been  ill  and  oughtn't  to  be  asked  to  do 
such  things.     Evie,  don't  touch  that  trunk." 

"That's  perfect  rubbish.  I'm  not  asking  her  to 
lift  it.       Come  on,  Evie." 

I  stopped,  looking  helplessly  from  one  to  the 
other.  They  glared  at  each  other,  his  face  pale, 
hers  red.  They  seemed  on  the  verge  of  battle  and  I 
knew  what  Lizzie  was  like  when  her  temper  was  up. 

"Oh,  don't  fight  about  a  trunk,"  I  implored. 

"I've  not  the  slightest  intention  of  fighting  about 
anything,"  said  Roger,  looking  as  if,  had  a  suitable 
adversary  been  present,  he  would  have  felled  him 
to  the  ground.  "But  I  won't  have  you  making  ef- 
forts that  are  unnecessary  and  that  you're  unable  to 
make." 

"You  talk  like  a  perfect  fool,"  said  Lizzie,  with 
the  flashing  eye  of  combat  I  knew  so  well. 

He  bowed. 

"I'm  quite  ready  to  admit  it.     But  as  a  perfect 
fool  I  absolutely  refuse  to  let  you  make  Mrs.  Drake 
help  shut  that  trunk." 
.     "Then  do  it  yourself." 


3i8  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

As  usual  she  had  the  best  of  It.  Roger  knew  it 
and  bore  upon  his  face  the  look  of  the  bear  in  the 
pit  at  whom  small  boys  hurl  gibes.  When  she  saw 
the  symptoms  of  defeat  she  began  to  melt. 

"It'll  not  take  five  minutes — just  one  good  pres- 
sure on  this  corner.  There's  a  hat  box  that  sticks 
up  and  has  to  be  squeezed  down." 

With  a  white  face  of  wrath  Roger  strode  over  the 
clothes  and  sat  on  the  trunk.  I  have  never  believed 
that  he  could  be  ridiculous,  my  Roger  hedged 
round  with  the  dignity  that  is  the  Clements*  heritage, 
but  he  was  then,  boiling  with  rage,  perched  un- 
comfortably on  the  sloping  lid.  A  hysterical  desire 
to  laugh  seized  me  and  I  backed  off  to  my  chair, 
biting  my  under  lip,  afraid  to  speak  for  fear  of  ex- 
ploding into  a  screaming  giggle. 

They  were  unconscious  of  anything  funny  in  the 
situation,  one  too  angry,  the  other  too  engrossed. 
With  a  concentrated  glance  she  surveyed  the  trunk, 
directing  the  bestowal  of  his  weight.  When  she  had 
finally  got  him  in  the  right  place,  she  knelt,  key  in 
hand,  and  in  answer  to  a  curt  demand  he  rose  and 
flopped  furiously  down.  To  the  protesting  crunch- 
ing of  the  hat  box,  the  lid  settled  and  the  click  of 
the  lock  sounded. 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  319 

"Done,"  she  cried  triumphantly,  falling  back  in 
a  sitting  posture  on  the  floor. 

Roger  got  up. 

"Have  I  your  permission  to  go?"  he  asked  with 
elaborate  deference. 

"You  have,"  said  his  hostess,  and  from  the  floor 
looked  up  with  a  bright  and  beaming  face  from 
which  every  vestige  of  bad  temper  had  fled.  "Good- 
by — good  luck.  And  remember,  the  first  perform- 
ance I  give  in  New  York  I  expect  to  see  you  ap- 
plauding in  the  bald-headed  row." 

As  the  door  shut  on  him  my  laughter  came  like 
the  burst  of  a  geyser.  Lizzie,  still  on  the  floor,  look- 
ing at  me  with  annoyed  surprise,  made  it  worse. 
When  she  asked  me  in  a  hostile  voice  kindly  to  tell 
her  what  the  joke  was,  it  got  beyond  my  control 
and  I  became  hysterical.  It  wasn't  very  bad — I  al- 
ways do  things  in  a  meek  subdued  way — but  I 
laughed  and  cried  when  I  tried  to  explain  and 
laughed  again. 

When  she  saw  there  was  no  use  ordering  me  not 
to  be  an  idiot,  she  got  up,  grumbling  to  herself  and 
began  on  the  second  trunk.  She  kept  stepping 
round  me  carrying  armfuls  of  clothes,  trailing 
skirts  over  my  knees,  leaning  forward  from  a  kneel- 


320  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

ing  posture  to  jerk  blouses,  cloaks  and  petticoats 
from  the  back  of  my  chair.  I  tried  to  retreat  into 
corners,  but  she  worked  in  wide  comprehensive 
sweeps,  wherever  I  went  coming  after  me  to  find 
something  that  was  under  my  chair  or  upon  which 
I  was  sitting.  Finally  she  used  me  as  a  sort  of 
stand,  throwing  things  on  me  and  plucking  them  off, 
muttering  abstractedly  as  she  worked. 

I  was  recovering  and  she  was  inspecting  a  skirt 
outheld  at  arm's  length  when  she  said  musingly : 

"I  hadn't  the  least  idea  Roger  Clements  was  so 
bad-tempered.  He's  just  a  self-sufficient  cross- 
grained  prig.  Gets  into  a  rage  when  I  ask  him  to 
sit  on  a  trunk.    I  can't  stand  that  kind  of  man." 

I  bade  her  good  night  and  went  down-stairs. 

The  lights  were  burning  high.  I  put  them  out 
and  laid  down  on  the  bed.  My  laughter  and  tears 
were  over.  Fatigue,  anger  and  pain  were  sensa- 
tions that  existed  somewhere  outside  me,  in  a  world 
I  had  left.  I  seemed  to  have  no  body,  to  be  a  spirit 
loosened  from  fleshly  trammels,  floating  blissfully 
in  prismatic  clouds. 

I  floated  in  them,  motionless  in  ecstatic  relief, 
savoring  my  joy,  knowing  the  perfection  of  peace, 
till  the  windows  paled  with  the  dawn. 


XX 

I  WRITE  to-night  in  a  hushed  house — a  house 
that  holds  the  emptiness  that  follows  the  with- 
drawal of  a  dynamic  presence. 

Lizzie  is  gone. 

As  her  ship  bears  her  away  to  future  glory,  we, 
the  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,  sit  here 
recuperating  from  the  labors  of  getting  her  off.  In 
its  hour  of  departure  the  magnet  gave  forth  the 
full  measure  of  its  power  and  we  bent  our  backs 
and  lent  our  hands  in  a  last  energy  of  service.  No 
votaries  bowed  before  the  shrine  of  a  deity  ever 
celebrated  their  worship  with  more  selfless  acts  of 
devotion  than  Mrs.  Bushey's  lodgers  in  speeding 
Lizzie  on  her  way. 

What  did  Mr.  Hazard's  unfinished  order  matter 
when  Lizzie,  having  forgotten  to  order  the  express- 
man, one  had  to  be  sought  up  and  down  the  reaches 
of  Lexington  Avenue?  Of  what  consequence  to 
Miss  Bliss  were  broken  sittings,  on  the  proceeds  of 
which  she  could  have  lived  for  a  week,  when  Lizzie's 
traveling  dress  was  found  to  be  in  rags  and  had  to 

321 


322  THE    BOOK   OF    EVELYN 

be  mended  by  some  one  who  knew  how  ?  When  the 
count  rendered  his  tribute  in  fruit  and  flowers,  did 
he  stop  to  consider  that  the  money  was  part  of  the 
fund  reserved  for  his  passage  home,  and  now  he 
would  have  to  travel  second  cabin  ?  No  one  thought 
of  anything  but  the  departing  goddess.  They  were 
proud  and  glad  to  deny  themselves  that  she  might 
go,  grandly  serene,  amid  clouds  of  ascending  in- 
cense. 

As  for  me,  after  that  night  of  respite,  I  became  a 
body  again,  a  body  whose  mission  was  the  prepar- 
ing of  another  for  the  great  adventure.  She  drew 
me  after  her  as  the  fisherman  draws  the  glittering 
bit  of  tin  that  revolves  from  the  end  of  his  line.  The 
simile  is  not  entirely  satisfactory  because  I  did  not 
glitter,  but  I  revolved,  round  and  round,  as  the 
fisherman's  hand  pulled  or  eased  on  the  line.  I 
sewed,  I  packed,  I  unpacked,  searching  for  for- 
gotten necessities.  I  was  down-town,  executing 
overlooked  errands,  I  was  up-town,  cooking  hur- 
ried meals  in  the  kitchenette.  My  voice  in  the 
morning  called  her  to  breakfast,  my  good  night  was 
the  last  sound  on  the  stairs  as  I  left  her  room, 
grown  bare  and  bleak,  losing  its  character,  as  one 
by  one  the  signs  of  her  occupancy  vanished.    I  had 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  323 

no  time  to  feel,  to  be  glad  or  sorry.  Even  the 
passion  to  have  her  go  was  overridden  by  the  ruling 
instinct  that  while  she  was  there  I  must  serve.  And 
though  the  poet  tells  us  there  are  those  who  can  do 
this  while  standing  and  waiting,  I  evidently  was 
not  one  of  them. 

As  we  demonstrated  her  power  by  the  zeal  of 
our  devotion,  her  arrogant  exactions  increased  in 
a  corresponding  ratio.  She  was  never  more  aloof, 
more  regally  indifferent,  more  imperiously  demand- 
ing. The  call  of  her  destiny  had  come  to  her  and 
she  heard  nothing  else. 

Her  stay  with  us  had  been  only  the  bivouac  of 
a  night,  and  we  the  passers-by  she  had  encountered 
in  the  moment  of  halt.  With  the  goal  in  sight  we 
lost  what  small  significance  we  had  and  assumed 
the  aspect  of  strangers,  by  whose  fire  she  had  rested, 
in  whose  tent  she  had  slept.  Already,  before  she 
had  gone,  we  had  faded  into  the  limbo  of  the  use- 
less and  outworn.  Henceforward,  from  our  humble 
corner,  we  would  watch  her  mounting  on  others  as 
she  had  mounted  on  us — climbing  higher  and  higher 
with  never  a  backward  glance  or  a  wave  of  her  hand 
to  the  little  group  who  strained  their  eyes  for  a  sign 
of  remembrance. 


324  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Some  day  the  others  would  find  her  out  and  be 
angry,  cite  to  their  friends  proofs  of  her  ingrati- 
tude, grow  bitter  at  the  memory  of  their  unappre- 
ciated efforts,  add  her  to  the  list  of  forgetful  great 
ones  who  took  all  and  rendered  nothing  back.  From 
a  deeper  knowledge  of  her  I  would  never  know  their 
disillusion.  The  thought  that  she  felt  no  love  for 
any  of  us  had  for  me  no  sting.  I  even  went  farther, 
agreed  that  it  was  not  her  place  to  feel  it.  Arrived 
at  last  at  the  heart  of  her  mystery,  I  could  keep  my 
memor}^  of  her  fair  and  untarnished,  untouched  by 
efforts  to  fit  her  into  a  frame  where  she  didn't  be- 
long. 

She  was  not,  as  they  would  think,  a  heartless  and 
cruel  fellow  of  ours,  but  the  creature  of  another 
species,  thinking  in  a  different  language,  seeing  life 
from  a  different  angle.  What  we  were  trained  to 
accept  as  right  and  just,  she  had  no  power  to  recog- 
nize. Custom  and  tradition  had  formed  a  groove  in 
which  we  walked  unquestionably  onward.  She  wan- 
dered at  will  in  a  world  expressly  created  for  her, 
peopled  by  shades  who  had  no  meaning  apart  from 
their  usefulness.  Environment  that  had  molded 
and  put  its  stamp  upon  us  made  no  impression  upon 
Her    invulnerable    self-concentration.     We    held    a 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  325 

point  of  view  in  common,  responded  automatically 
to  established  ideas  and  inherited  impulses.  She 
saw  no  claims  but  her  own  and  moved  upon  what 
she  wanted  with  the  directness  of  an  animal.  The 
bogies  with  which  we  were  frightened  into  good 
behavior — public  opinion,  social  position,  loss  of 
respect — she  snapped  her  fingers  at.  Her  only  law 
was  the  law  of  her  own  being,  her  standard,  a  fierce 
and  defiant  determination  to  be  true  to  herself.  Re- 
straints and  reticences,  subtleties  of  breeding,  deli- 
cacies of  conduct,  imposed  on  us  by  the  needs  of 
communal  life,  were  not  for  her,  selected  and  set 
apart  to  be  that  lonely  figure  in  the  crowded  com- 
panionable world — the  people's  servant. 

That  was  what  I  at  last  knew  her  to  be — an  in- 
strument for  the  joy,  the  recreation,  the  enthrall- 
ment  of  that  great,  sluggish,  full-fed  Minotaur,  the 
public.  For  this  purpose  nature  had  fashioned  her, 
eliminating  every  characteristic  that  might  render 
her  unfit,  pruning  away  virtues  that  would  hamper, 
uprooting  instincts  that  would  interfere.  As  Words- 
worth saw  the  All-Mother  saying  of  a  worthy  speci- 
men, "I  will  make  a  lady  of  my  own,"  so,  seeing 
Lizzie,  she  had  said,  "I  will  make  an  artist  of  my 
own,"  and  had  set  about  doing  it  with  thoroughness. 


326  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

From  the  beautiful  outer  case  to  "the  hollows 
where  a  heart  should  be"  she  was  formed  to  be  the 
one  thing — a  cunningly  framed  and  articulated 
mechanism  for  our  entertainment.  To  us — whom 
she  so  lightly  regarded — she  was  foreordained  to 
carry  a  message  of  beauty,  call  us  from  our  sordid 
cares,  and  base  ambitions,  catch  us  up  from  the 
grayness  of  the  every  day  to  the  heights  where  once 
more  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  vision  and  the 
dream.  That  we  should  work  and  sacrifice  to  help 
her  to  her  place,  she,  unconscious  but  impelled  by 
her  destiny,  felt,  and  made  me  feel.  And  having 
gathered  up  our  tribute  she  had  left  us,  not  ungrate- 
fully, not  having  taken  all  and  given  nothing,  but 
in  her  own  time  and  in  her  own  way  to  pay  us  back 
a  hundredfold. 

I  thought  it  all  out  in  the  cab  coming  back  from 
the  steamer,  and  I  was  content  to  have  it  so. 

I  had  gone  down  to  see  her  off — she  wanted  me 
and  no  one  else.  We  had  passed  up  the  dock  amid 
throngs  of  passengers  and  presently  there  were 
stewards  and  cabin-boys  running  for  her  luggage, 
and  officers  discreetly  staring.  When  we  bought  the 
ticket  I  had  seen  on  the  list  the  name  of  a  countess, 
and  I  learned  that  she  was  a  royal  lady  traveling 


THE    BOOK    OE    EVELYN  327 

incognita  with  a  maid.  Everybody  thought  Lizzie 
was  the  countess  and  I  the  maid.  I  looked  the  part, 
trotting  at  her  heels,  carrying  a  large  bandbox  cov- 
ered with  pink  roses  that  had  been  overlooked  in 
the  final  scramble.  She  had  a  triumphal  progress, 
everything  made  easy,  boys  bearing  the  count's 
flowers  going  before  her  up  the  gangway,  and  I 
following  with  the  bandbox  that  nobody  had  ofl'ered 
to  take.  Before  I  left  I  saw  the  royal  lady  leaning 
on  the  railing,  a  pale  person  with  the  curling  fringe 
and  prominent  eyes  of  the  typical  British  princess. 
Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  her,  but  when  we  went 
exploring  about  the  decks,  looks  followed  us  and 
whispers  buzzed. 

As  the  big  ship  churned  the  water  and  ponderous- 
ly moved  off,  I  stood  on  the  pier's  edge  and  waved 
to  her.  I  was  the  tiny  unit  in  the  crowd — the  name- 
less, humdrum,  earth-bound  crowd — for  whom  she 
was  to  weave  the  spell,  and  create  the  illusion. 
Through  a  glaze  of  tears  I  watched  her,  tall  and 
splendid  beside  the  dowdy  princess — my  beautiful 
Lizzie,  a  real  princess,  going  imperially  to  claim 
her  crown. 

The  windows  are  open  and  the  spring  night  comes 
in,  soft  as  a  caress.     In  the  basement  of  the  apart- 


328  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

ment-house  some  one  is  playing  Annie  Laurie  on 
the  accordion,  and  in  the  back  yards  the  servants  are 
chatting  in  the  kitchen  doors.  From  Mr.  Hazard's 
room,  below  me,  I  can  hear  a  low  murmur  of  voices. 
The  others  are  in  there  talking  it  over,  all,  I  know, 
singing  the  praises  of  Lizzie,  voicing  hopes  for  her 
success  as  deep  and  sincere  as  prayers.  I  can  fancy 
them,  reclining  on  chairs  and  sofas,  worn  out  by 
their  labors  and  feeling  blankly  that  something  has 
gone  out  of  their  lives.  A  wild  disturbing  chord  in 
the  day's  melody  is  hushed,  a  red  thread  in  the 
tapestry  has  been  withdrawn. 

I  feel  it,  too. 

And  so  the  tale  is  ended.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
ever  write  any  more.  In  the  autumn,  when  I 
started  this  manuscript,  I  just  intended  to  put  down 
the  happenings  of  a  lonely  woman's  life,  to  read 
over  on  evenings  when  looking  back  was  pleasanter 
than  looking  forward.  Now,  without  intending  to, 
I  have  written  a  story,  which  is  not  my  fault,  as  the 
story  happened  to  intrude  itself  into  the  lonely 
woman's  life,  greatly  to  her  surprise,  and  a  good 
deal  to  her  sorrow.  But  this  is  the  finish  of  it. 
There  is  no  more  to  tell.  The  heroine  has  gone. 
If  to  come  back  not  the  same  heroine.    The  hero— 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  329 

you  know  as  much  about  him  as  I  do.  And  the 
author — well,  the  author  is  just  where  she  was,  a 
widow  of  thirty-three,  doing  light  housekeeping  in 
an  eighteen-foot  apartment.  It  can't  be  much  of  a 
story  because  it  hasn't  got  anywhere;  nobody  has 
died,  nobody  has  married.  So  to  myself — for  I  am 
going  to  put  this  away  in  a  trunk  and  never  let  a 
soul  see  it — I  make  my  bow  as  an  author. 

Good   night,    Evelyn   Drake.    As   a  sadder   and 
wiser  woman  I  take  my  leave  of  you.     Good-by. 


EPILOGUE 

THIS  has  been  a  day  of  coincidences.  They 
began  in  the  afternoon  and  ended  an  hour 
ago.  And  now,  past  midnight,  in  my  sitting-room 
looking  out  on  the  lights  of  the  Rond  Point,  like 
Bret  Harte*s  heroine,  "I  am  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 
dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance" — only  it 
wasn't  a  dance,  it  was  the  opera. 

But  to  get  to  the  coincidences :  This  afternoon 
I  was  unpacking  an  old  trunk  full  of  odds  and  ends 
that  I  brought  when  we  came  to  Paris  last  autumn, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  it  I  found  the  manuscript  I 
had  written  four  years  ago  at  Mrs.  Bushey's.  I 
laid  It  on  the  top  to  read  over  in  some  idle  moment 
when  Roger  wouldn't  catch  me.  For  though  weVe 
been  married  three  years  and  talked  over  every- 
thing that  ever  happened  to  either  of  us,  Roger 
doesn't  know  the  whole  story  of  that  winter. 

Of  course  I  have  asked  him  if  he  wasn't  really  in 
love  with  Lizzie,  and  he  always  laughs  and  says 
he  wasn't,  that  he  was  attracted  by  her  and  inter- 
ested in  her  as  a  type.     I  don't  contradict  him — ' 

330 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  331 

it's  best  to  let  men  rest  peacefully  in  their  innocent 
self-delusions.  Besides,  if  I  pressed  the  subject  we 
might  have  to  go  on  to  Lizzie  and  Masters,  and 
that's  the  part  of  the  story  he  doesn't  know.  Some- 
times I've  thought  I'd  tell  him  and  then  I've  always 
stopped.  Why  should  I?  It's  all  come  out  right. 
Lizzie  has  traveled  along  the  line  of  least  resistance 
in  one  direction  and  reached  success,  and  Roger  has 
done  the  same  thing  in  another  and  reached  me.  She 
7nusi  be  happy  if  fulfilled  ambitions  can  do  it,  and 
we  are,  with  each  other  and  last  year — ^to  crown  it 
all — our  boy. 

Well,  I  won't  go  into  that — I  get  too  garrulous. 
When  a  woman  of  thirty-six  has  a  baby  she  never 
gets  over  the  pride  and  wonder  of  it. 

We  came  over  to  Paris  last  autumn  for  Roger  to 
do  some  reading  in  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  and 
took  this  charming  apartment  near  the  Rond  Point. 
On  bright  mornings  I  can  look  into  the  little  park 
and  see  Roger  Clements  IX  sitting  out  there  in  his 
perambulator  studying  Parisian  life.  The  day  sud- 
denly strikes  me  as  unusually  fine  and  I  go  out  and 
sit  on  the  bench  beside  him  and  we  study  Parisian 
life  together,  while  his  nou-nou  knits  on  a  camp- 
chair  near  by. 


332  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Bother — I  keep  losing  sight  of  the  coincidences 
which  are  the  only  reason  I  began  to  write  this. 
To  resume: 

During  these  four  years  we  have  tried  to  keep 
track  of  Lizzie.  It  was  difficult  because,  of  course, 
after  the  first  few  months,  she  stopped  writing.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  Betty  we  should  have  lost  her  en- 
tirely, but  Betty,  being  the  source  of  supplies,  did 
know,  at  least,  her  whereabouts.  I  may  add,  en 
passant,  that  Mrs.  Ferguson  stood  by  her  contract 
to  the  end  and  now  is  enjoying  the  fruits  thereof. 
If  she  isn't  known  as  the  patron  of  the  greatest  living 
prima  donna,  she  is  known  as  a  lady  who  made  a 
career  possible  to  one  of  the  rising  singers  of 
Europe. 

It  was  two  years  before  Liza  Bonaventura  made 
her  first  hit,  as  Elizabeth  in  Tannhduser  at  Dres- 
den. Then  we  could  follow  her  course  in  the 
papers.  I  was  as  proud  as  if  I'd  done  it  myself 
when  I  read  of  the  excitement  her  Tosca  created  in 
Berlin.  After  that  there  was  a  series  of  triumphs 
in  the  smaller  cities  of  Germany.  She  sang  Car- 
men at  a  special  performance  where  the  royal  fam- 
ily of  something  or  other  (I  never  can  remember 
those  German  names,  if  I  did  I  couldn't  spell  them). 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  333 

were  present,  and  the  kinglet  or  princeling  of  the 
palace  gave  her  a  decoration. 

After  that  the  papers  began  to  print  stories  about 
her,  which  is  the  forerunner  of  fame.  Some  of  them 
were  very  funny,  but  most  of  them  sounded  true.  I 
don't  think  her  press-agent  had  to  do  much  invent- 
ing. All  sorts  of  distinguished  and  wonderful  men 
were  in  love  with  her,  but  she  would  have  none  of 
them.  There  were  some  anecdotes  of  her  temper  that 
I  am  sure  were  genuine:  how  she  once  slapped  a 
rival  prima  donna  in  the  face,  and  threw  her  slipper 
at  the  head  of  a  German  Serene  Highness  who  must 
have  lost  his  serenity  for  the  moment. 

When  we  came  over  here  we  had  first-hand  ac- 
counts of  her,  from  Americans  who  had  been  travel- 
ing in  Germany  and  were  bursting  with  pride  and 
enthusiasm,  and  foreigners,  who  knew  more  and 
were  more  temperate,  but  admitted  that  a  new  star 
had  risen  on  the  horizon.  "The  handsomest  woman 
on  the  operatic  stage  since  Malibran,"  an  old  French 
marquis,  who  had  heard  her  as  Tosca,  told  me  one 
night  at  dinner.  Then  some  Italians  who  had  seen 
her  Carmen  were  quite  thrilled — such  tempera- 
ment— such  passion !  Only  Calve  in  her  prime  had 
r  given  such  a  dramatic  portrayal  of  the  fiery  gipsy. 


334  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

Opinions  were  divided  about  her  Brunhilda.  A 
man  Roger  and  I  met  at  the  house  of  a  French 
writer,  where  we  sometimes  go,  told  us  that  in 
majesty  and  nobility  she  was  incomparable,  but  that 
her  voice  was  inadequate.  Still,  she  was  young, 
hardly  in  her  full  vigor,  with  care  and  study,  aided 
by  her  magnificent  physique,  she  might  yet  rise  to 
the  vocal  requirements  and  then — he  spread  out  his 
hands  and  rolled  up  his  eyes. 

To-night  I  have  come  from  the  opera  after  hear- 
ing her  in  Carmen  and  the  effect  Is  with  me  still — 
the  difficulty  of  shaking  off  the  Illusion  and  getting 
back  into  life. 

When  I  looked  round  from  my  seat  In  the  or- 
chestra and  saw  that  house,  tier  upon  tier  of  faces, 
hundreds  of  small  pale  ovals  in  ascending  ranks,  all 
looking  the  same  way,  all  waiting  to  hear  Lizzie,  I 
couldn't  believe  it.  The  great  reverberating  shell 
of  building  held  them  like  bees  In  a  hive,  buzzing 
as  they  found  places  whence  they  could  see  the 
queen  bee.  Through  my  own  quivering  expectancy 
I  could  sense  theirs,  quieter  but  keen,  and  hear, 
thrown  back  from  the  resonant  walls  and  hollow 
dome,  the  sounds  of  fluttered  programs,  rustling 
fabrics,  seats   dropping  and  the  fluctuant  hum  of 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  335 

voices — the  exhilarating  stir  and  bustle  of  a  great 
audience  gradually  settling  into  stillness.  They 
couldn't  have  come  to  see  Lizzie — so  many  people? 
I  was  dreaming,  it  was  somebody  else. 

The  curtain  lifted,  the  illuminated  stage  was  set 
in  the  gloom  like  a  glowing  picture.  Figures  moved 
across  it,  voices  sang,  and  then  Carmen  came  with 
the  red  flower  in  her  mouth  and  it  was  Lizzie. 

She  was  changed,  matured,  grown  fuller  and 
handsomer,  much  handsomer — her  beauty  in  full 
flower.  Her  voice,  too,  was  immensely  improved;  a 
fine  voice,  full,  clear  and  large,  not,  as  she  had  once 
said  to  me,  one  of  the  world's  great  voices,  but 
enough  for  her,  sufficient  for  what  she  has  to  do  witK 
it.  It  is  she,  her  personality,  her  magnetic  and  com- 
pelling self,  that  is  the  potent  thing. 

Just  as  she  used  to  seize  upon  and  subdue  us  at 
Mrs.  Bushey's,  she  seized  upon  and  subdued  those 
close-packed  silent  ranks.  From  the  brilliant  pic- 
ture, cutting  the  darkness  in  front  of  us,  she  reached 
out,  groped  for  and  grasped  at  every  consciousness, 
waiting  to  receive  its  impression.  The  other  sing- 
ers lost  their  identity,  faded  into  a  colorless  middle 
distance,  as  we  used  to  fade  when  Lizzie  came 
among  us.     She    held    the    house,    not    so    mucK 


336  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

charmed  as  subjugated,  more  as  the  conqueror  than 
the  enchantress.  As  the  opera  progressed  I,  with 
my  intimate  knowledge  of  her,  could  see  her  gain- 
ing force,  could  feel  her  fierce  exhilaration,  as  she 
realized  her  dominance  was  growing  secure.  Her 
voice  grew  richer,  her  performance  more  boldly  con- 
fident. To  me  she  reached  her  highest  point  in  the 
scene  over  the  cards,  her  face  stiffened  to  a  tragic 
mask,  the  cry  of  ''La  Mort"  imbued  with  horror. 
I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind — the  Gitana,  terrible 
with  her  lust  of  life,  suddenly  looking  into  the  eyes 
of  death. 

I  don't  know  how  to  write  about  music,  but  it 
wasn't  all  music.  It  was  the  woman,  the  combina- 
tion of  her  great  endowment  with  her  power  of 
vitalizing  an  illusion,  of  putting  blood  and  fire  into 
an  imaginary  creation,  that  made  it  so  remarkable. 
Her  portrayal  had  not  the  vocal  beauty  or  sophisti- 
cated seduction  of  Calve's.  It  was  more  primitive, 
farther  from  the  city  and  closer  to  the  earth.  It 
seemed  to  me  more  Merimee's  Carmen  than  Bizet's. 
Of  its  kind,  I,  anyway — and  Roger  agreed  with  me 
— thought  it  superb. 

When  it  ended  and  she  came  before  the  curtain 
there  were  bursts  upon    bursts    of    applause    and 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  337 

"bravas"  dropping  from  the  galleries.  I  dare  say 
I  will  never  again  see  a  dream  so  completely  real- 
ized. Then  the  house  began  to  empty  itself  down 
that  splendid  stairway,  a  packed,  slow-moving,  vol- 
uble crowd,  praise,  criticism,  comment,  flung  back 
and  forth  in  the  excited  French  fashion.  I  was 
silent,  holding  Roger's  arm.  A  short  fat  Frenchman 
behind  me  puffed  almost  into  my  ear,  "Quelle 
jemme,  mats,  quelle  fetntne!"  A  woman  in  front  in  a 
Chinese  opera  cloak,  leaned  back  to  say  over  her 
shoulder  to  a  man  squeezing  past  Roger,  "La  voix 
est  bonne,  mats  ft' est  pas  grande  chose,  mats  c'esi  une 
vraie  artiste"  And  an  angular  girl  at  my  elbow, 
steering  an  old  lady  through  cracks  in  the  mass, 
murmured  ecstatically  to  herself,  "Mon  Dieu,  quelle 
temperament!"  That  was  the  word  I  heard  often- 
est,  temperament. 

So  in  a  solid  brilliant  throng  we  descended  the 
stairs,  all  engaged  with  Lizzie,  discussing  her,  laud- 
ing her,  wondering  at  her — Lizzie,  whom  I  had 
seen  in  the  making,  learning  to  be  the  vraie  artiste, 
wounded,  desperate  and  despairing  that  this 
might  be. 

At  the  stair-foot — this  is  the  last  of  the  coinci- 
dences— the  crowd  broke  Into  lines  and  clumps,  scat- 


338  THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN 

tering  for  the  exits,  and  through  a  break  I  saw  a 
man  standing  by  a  pillar.  He  was  looking  up  at 
the  descending  people,  but  not  as  if  he  was  interested 
in  them,  in  fact  by  the  expression  of  his  face  I  don't 
think  he  saw  them.     It  was  John  Masters. 

If  he  hadn't  been  so  absorbed  he  would  have  seen 
me  for  I  was  close  to  him.  But  his  eyes,  set  in  that 
fixity  of  inner  vision,  never  swerved.  He  looked 
much  older,  more  lined,  his  bald  spot  grown  all  over 
the  top  of  his  head.  Though  the  glimpse  I  had  of 
him  was  fleeting,  the  crowd  closing  on  him  almost 
directly,  it  was  long  enough  for  me  to  see  that  the 
change  was  deeper  than  what  the  years  might  have 
wrought.  It  was  spiritual,  diminished  will  power, 
self-reliance  grown  weak.  Shabby,  thin,  discour- 
aged, he  suggested  just  one  word — failure. 

My  hand  involuntarily  shut  on  Roger's  arm  and 
I  whispered  to  him  to  hurry.  I  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  meeting  Masters — not  for  my  sake  but 
for  his.  I  couldn't  bear  to  look  into  his  face  and  see 
him  try  to  smile. 

It  Is  nearly  one.  Roger  Is  writing  In  his  study 
and  Roger  Clements  IX  Is  sleeping  In  his  crib  by 
my  bed.  How  strange  It  all  Is.  Four  years  ago 
not  one  of  us,  except  Lizzie,  the  impossible  and  Ir- 


THE    BOOK    OF    EVELYN  339 

responsible,  had  the  least  idea  that  any  of  us  would 
be  where  we  are  now.  It  was  Lizzie,  fighting  out 
her  destiny,  who  crowded  and  elbowed  us  all  into 
our  proper  places,  Lizzie,  rapt  in  her  vision,  who 
brought  us  ours. 

This  is  the  real  end  of  my  manuscript.  It  has 
got  somewhere  after  all.  I  can  write  *'finis'*  with  a 
sense  of  its  being  the  fitting  word.  But  before  I  do 
I  want  to  just  say  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to-night, 
while  we  were  driving  home  in  the  taxi,  that  I'll 
never  tell  Roger  now. 


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